


32 kisses

by deanpendragon



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Drabble Collection, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 08:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 19,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12883770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanpendragon/pseuds/deanpendragon
Summary: A 32-day kiss challenge with Tsukishima and Yamaguchi. Drabbles on drabbles on (longer) drabbles.





	1. upside-down kiss

**Author's Note:**

> this is low-key kissing practice, but honestly i just high-key miss writing tsukkiyama.
> 
> this collection will be posted throughout the month of december, one a day, until new years day. the post where i talk about this kiss challenge and invite you guys to gimme some recommendations is [HERE](http://deanpendragon.tumblr.com/post/167986724474/deanpendragon-deanpendragon-so-i-think-im), so feel free to help your girl out with any ideas you may have, or ideas about kiss prompts i've already listed. keep in mind that these are drabbles so they won't be long. also keep in mind that it's me so i'll definitely ramble on some of them. OKAY DONE.
> 
> happy reading!! (.....x32)

**** Yamaguchi swings from bar to bar and the structure groans. He bends his legs so his feet don’t hit the woodchip-covered dirt. Kei sits on the bench and watches him, his hand raised to block the orange glow of the setting sun. Backlit and agile, Yamaguchi swings on.

“It’s a little creaky,” he chirps. “I don’t trust it, Tsukki.”

“Because it’s made for children.”

“I’m children.”

“You are not children. Come sit with me.”

“Come swing with _me_.”

Kei was always too tall for the monkey bars. Not that it stops Yamaguchi; he skips three bars at a time and drops his foot on accident, kicking up a spray of woodchips and soil, dirtying up his sneaker.

“Oops.”

Yamaguchi stops to stand on the ladder he doesn’t need. Kei scoots six inches to his right so the slide on the far side of the park hides the sun. A mess of orange light bursts from behind it. The days are getting shorter. Kei eyes Yamaguchi’s thin t-shirt, hanging off his frame from the way he leans.

“Remember when kids used to climb on top of these like it was so cool? Like they were the king of the playground?”

“Yeah.”

“I never got to do that,” Yamaguchi mentions, a twinge of melancholy in his tone.

Kei stares. He waves him on.

“So do it now.”

Yamaguchi climbs the structure in one graceful motion. He’s less graceful as he situates himself over the bars, lying atop them like he plans to sleep. He rests his head on his hands, a makeshift pillow. The sun watches them, Yamaguchi watches the sky, and Kei watches Yamaguchi as he lounges over the top of the monkey bars—the little park’s teenaged conqueror.

“Comfortable?” Kei implores.

“Nope. But I feel strong.”

He stands and dawdles his way to the monkey bars, woodchips crunching under his steps.

“You look very cool,” he promises.

Yamaguchi turns his head to watch him.

“Yeah?” he asks, grinning.

“Yeah. King of the playground.”

His eyes are bright, ignited by distant sunlight. Kei stands by the ladder and Yamaguchi shimmies his way to the edge of the monkey bars. He tips his head over the edge, his bangs falling off his forehead. Kei sees the freckles by his hairline. Yamaguchi’s smile is easy, lazy, confident.

“Do I look like Spider-Man?” he wonders.

“No. Not enough spandex.”

He chirps a laugh. Kei grins. Yamaguchi flings his arms up.

“Help! Save me, Mary Jane!”

“Ridiculous.”

“Mary Jane!” he cries. “Please!”

“Why do I have to be Mary Jane?”

“Because you're prettier than I am,” Yamaguchi informs him. He tries to flatten his bangs to his forehead to no avail. “Also, I’m upside-down.”

“I see that.”

The bars squeak as Yamaguchi shimmies further off the edge. He grins at Kei, closer now, his face going pink.

“Hurry, Tsukki. The blood’s rushing to my head.”

“Why don’t you get down?”

“Be- _cause_ ,” he insists, “you still haven’t saved me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Kei argues. “She doesn’t save Spider-Man. You’re supposed to save me.”

Yamaguchi waves it off. “Semantics, Tsukki.”

“Fine.”

Kei’s fingers crawl down Yamaguchi’s chin, over his mouth, peeling back an invisible mask. His hands hold Yamaguchi’s face as he kisses him. He kisses him once, and again when Yamaguchi parts his mouth into it. Kei feels his jaw move under his palms. The monkey bars squeak once more when Yamaguchi shifts closer. His nose pokes Kei’s chin and Kei grins against his mouth, warm like sunlight and just as familiar. They come apart with a hearty click.

“Saved?” Kei asks, swiping his thumbs over the corners of his lips.

“A dozen times over, Tsukki.” Yamaguchi grins at him and sits up. He presses his palm to his temple for a moment, finding his bearings. He jumps to the ground and with a faint crunch, he lands, sending woodchips flying. He turns to Kei. His face still glares red. “Okay,” he chirps. “Now _you_ be Spider-Man.”


	2. reassuring kiss

The fire is loud and bright, roaring just feet from the stable’s entrance where the flames can’t catch the wood and eat the structure alive. Sparks still fly close and drown swiftly in a moat of snow. Tadashi jerks when the hollow bottle slips from the old man’s hand and rattles on the stable floor. His hand still holds a fist in his sleep, grasping its ghost. Tsukishima watches the bottle as it rolls.

“If no one wakes up before its light out,” he says, “we may have to double up.”

Tadashi presses a finger to the bottle, stills its roll.

“Double up?”

“Share a bed.”

“Oh.”

Tadashi glances at the drunkard. His stupor might work in Tadashi’s favor, after all.

Patrons occupy the dozen rickety beds scattered inside the stable, some tossing, some turning, some so still they may be dead. Tadashi sees himself fitting his palms to their backs, shoving them forward. Watching them flop on the creaky floor, leaving the bed open, leaving it toasty just for him with the last of their body heat. He snickers.

“What?” Tsukishima asks him.

“Nothing. God, it’s morbid.”

With a _kssssh,_ the blade of Tsukishima’s sword slips from its sheath. There’s blood on the hilt. Animal blood. Tsukishima tilts the sword to catch the light of the fire outside, blinks against the glare. Scrapes the blood off the wooden hilt with his fingernail. Slides it back in. _Ksssssh_.

“Tell me.”

“Are you cold?”

“Not so much. Are you?”

“The fire helps.”

To get closer to the fire means to get closer to the entrance, to the outside, to the snow. They stay put and wait for an opening. Someone ought to wake up soon. The stable beds can’t be too comfortable. But one would feel better with Tsukishima beside him, although back to back. Tadashi shifts at the thought. His dagger digs into his leg—he didn’t sheathe it right—and he winces, shifting back.

Sparks peel off the fire. Snow dances around it.

“Remember the mother fox we saw?”

Tsukishima picks the dried blood from under his thumbnail. “Yes.”

“In the hollow near the dried-up spring?”

“Yes. It was Southeast of here.”

He finally shrugs his quiver off his back. He sets it in the lopsided pile between them with the rest of their gear. Tsukishima pulls his knee to his chest, rests his cheek on it. His eyes fall shut. Tadashi rests his palm on the floor just to be closer.

“Remember her babies?”

“Kits, Tadashi.”

“Yes. Remember her kits? How they slept?”

“I remember.”

Nestled into the white fur of their mother’s stomach, the foxes slept, curled like burnt orange leaves in the height of autumn. Tsukishima and Tadashi found food someplace else, ignored their gnawing hunger. Tsukishima shot a swift hare in the next hollow as the wind whispered through the grass, the yellow sunlight caught in his hair, and what Tadashi felt for him in that moment could have built mountains, constructed cliffs, risen snowcapped summits.

“They curled around one another, all close and warm.”

“I said I remember.”

“I’m jealous of them. Of that.”

“You shouldn’t be envious of animals,” Tsukishima tells him. “We eat them.”

“No, I just mean…It’s been a while since we slept like that. Like the foxes.”

His eyes flutter open. They prod Tadashi like soft fingers. Their attention is pulled behind Tsukishima’s shoulder when someone shifts noisily in their sheets, but it’s for nothing. The patron rolls over again and goes still. The sheets would still be warm if Tadashi were to curl into them now. He feels the slip of fabric over his skin, imagines its slight weight and Tsukishima’s heat at his back. His tongue runs over the inside of his lip. Tsukishima turns back.

“Does it bother you?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if it bothered you. That we haven’t slept like that in a while.”

The fire pops and crackles. In their stalls outside, horses whinny.

“I wouldn’t say it _bothers_ me, really…”

“Then what?”

“It’s just on my mind.”

“So it bothers you.”

Tsukishima’s hand rests on the floor by Tadashi’s. The wood slats are dark against his light skin. Tadashi’s stare slides up and down, up and down the great length of his fingers. Someone in the bed closest to the stable entrance coughs. Closest to them, the old man twitches in his sleep. His fist tightens again, missing its bottle.

“Nothing has changed,” Tsukishima says.

Tadashi eyes his hand, his wrist, his arm, his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, until his eyes meet Tsukishima’s, already staring back. Tsukishima blinks at him. Tadashi swallows to rid of the dryness in his throat.

“No, I know.”

“Do you?” Tsukishima asks him.

Tadashi opens his mouth, closes it again. He looks to the fire, watching the flames lick the logs. The floor creaks beneath him when Tsukishima stands. He lifts himself on long limbs and pilfers Tadashi’s attention again, again, again, regarding him from his vantage point.

“We should check the horses.”

Tadashi glances at their gear. “What about our stuff?”

“Everyone is asleep.”

“Not for much longer, if we’re lucky.”

Tsukishima waits until Tadashi stands to head for the entrance.

“Yes,” he says. “If we’re lucky.”

The fire cracks like a whip as they pass. Their boots crunch the thin layer of snow. The stable walls provide more warmth than he figured, Tadashi realizes now that they are truly outside, the evening wind slicing through their clothes. Tsukishima becomes a shadow as they stray farther from the fire. Tadashi follows blindly. He knows Tsukishima’s footsteps like he knows his face.

His steps go silent around the backside of the stable. His silhouette goes still. A sliver of light pries itself through a gap between the structure’s wall and roof, a dull glow, and it falls at their feet. Tsukishima’s cool fingers curl around Tadashi’s wrist.

“Kei?”

He steps into Tadashi, his chest pressing him back, back, frost crunching under their steps. Tadashi huffs a sigh as Tsukishima shares his body heat. Rugged wood scratches Tadashi’s shoulder-blades through thin fabric. His back presses flat against the stable wall, his breath pulled from him, fogging clouds in the night air. Tsukishima stays right up against him. His chest expands with each pant, tugging him closer with his arms wound around Tadashi’s middle. Warmth spreads through the webs and circuits of his veins, leaks into his every corner.

Tsukishima’s cheek presses to his. He pushes a drawn-out breath into Tadashi’s ear. Tadashi’s hands scrabble at his back before he locks his arms around Tsukishima’s neck. In the stalls not far off, horses stomp and snort. Snow falls silently. The low light catches in Tsukishima’s hair as he slides closer, closest, their abdomens pressed tight. No room between them for a matchstick.

Tsukishima leans back. He watches Tadashi owlishly, his eyes huge and golden. Tadashi stares up at him. His mouth parts.

Slowly, Tsukishima leans into him, tilting into his kiss, and every part of them that touches is cool, frozen—laid bare against the autumn snow in comparison to the heat of their mouths. Tsukishima’s hand slides up Tadashi’s back, under his shirt and jacket. He bares it to the biting wind but Tadashi hardly feels it. He hums against him. He kisses him slow. There isn't any need to rush. Tsukishima makes it clear with the unhurried tilt of his head, the languid slide of his tongue over Tadashi’s bottom lip. He growls a soft sound as Tadashi parts his mouth, letting him in.

His hand rests hot and flat in the middle of Tadashi’s back. Tadashi slides his hand from the nape of his neck into Tsukishima’s hair, brushing away snowflakes. Tsukishima pulls him closer and licks deeply into his mouth, so slowly it _aches._ Tadashi’s toes curl in his boots. His jaw goes slack. He breathes a moan between Tsukishima’s lips and feels his fingertips clutch at his back.

Tsukishima lets his kiss linger. His hand drags down Tadashi’s back. His skin is hot as he cups Tadashi’s red cheek. He draws his thumb over his wet lip and his head tips forward, their foreheads resting together, panting against each other’s mouths. Tadashi gazes up at him. Tsukishima stares back. His promise is warm on Tadashi’s lips.

“I told you. Nothing has changed.”


	3. distant kiss

“I bet your bed’s warm.”

“It’s not. I haven’t slept in it for months.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Tsukishima flips the camera to show his bed. The sheets are pristine, the bedskirt fluffed for his arrival, a couple of throw pillows—his mother’s taste—propped up by the headboard. Besides the latter accouterment, his bed is just the way he left it.

“Nice throw pillows, Tsukki. You’ve changed so much this semester.”

“Mom did that.”

There’s a loud clang on Yamaguchi’s end, one of his roommates dropping something in the kitchen, and Tsukishima pulls his phone from his face. He flips the camera around again.

“What’d you do?” Yamaguchi asks, turned away. Then, “Holy crap, do you need help?”

“What happened?”

“He dropped the giant spoon. There’s sauce _everywhere,_ wanna see?”

“I think I’m good.”

Yamaguchi grins at his phone, at Kei, backlit by the sun through his kitchen window. There’s a soft sound as Yamaguchi taps the screen to get it to focus. Tsukishima sits on his bed. He tosses his mother’s throw pillows to the floor and leans back. The train was crowded and slow. His legs ache from standing.

“It’s weird being back home when you aren’t, too.”

“Yeah.” Yamaguchi’s sigh crackles through the phone. “Wait, lemme go in my room.”

His dormitory blurs over his shoulders as he walks to his tiny bedroom, the video call lagging because it always does in Yamaguchi’s bedroom, and the picture stutters for a few seconds before Yamaguchi comes into focus again, crystal clear. His door thumps shut behind him and his bed—the bottom bunk—squeaks when he plops onto it.

“I bet your bed’s warm now,” he tells Tsukishima, grinning.

“It’s alright. Could be better.”

“Like with my almost disturbingly intense body heat there, too?”

Tsukishima grins. “Yeah. That.”

“I’m a furnace, Tsukki.”

Next to him on the bed, his luggage pokes into his side. Tsukishima shoves it away. He rolls onto his stomach and holds Yamaguchi closer to his face, wishing he hadn’t discarded his throw pillows so soon. He could nap. It’s only noon but his day has been so long already, cars and trains stretching even more miserable kilometers between them.

“I gotta hang up soon, Tsukki. Class starts early.”

“Skip,” says Tsukishima. “Talk to me.”

“Can’t. Sorry, Tsukki.”

Yamaguchi frowns, his eyes big and apologetic. Tsukishima stares achingly at the pixels that constitute him. He pulls his glasses off and sets them on the bed, rubbing his fingers into his sleepy eyes. He rests his chin on his arm.

“I miss you,” he mumbles.

Yamaguchi’s frown deepens. He looks so sorry, actually sorry, and Tsukishima’s heart sinks into his stomach.

“I miss you, too,” Yamaguchi promises. “Every day.”

One of his roommates hollers from the other room. The next moment, another one hollers back, the same rattling clack from earlier resounding again. Tsukishima hopes they know how lucky they are. 

“Tsukki? I gotta go.”

“Okay.”

Yamaguchi brings his phone to his face. He plants a kiss right on the camera.

“What?” he asks when Tsukishima stares. “Not gonna kiss me back?”

“Do you know how many germs there are on phone screens?”

“Nerd. Kiss me back.”

Yamaguchi grins, pink in his cheeks. Tsukishima pulls his phone close and kisses him back.

“Bye, Yamaguchi.”

“Bye, Tsukki. I’ll call you when I get out, okay?”

The call drops with a depressed beep. Tsukishima squeezes his eyes shut. He drops his forehead on the bed, his phone in his hand.


	4. airport kiss

Tadashi would rather actually die than bring a baby on a flight, and he only says this because he’s irritable, because he _really_ has to pee, but he can’t leave the carousel. He taps his foot on the grungy airport tile. The baby on the receiving end of his neutral stare screeches and flings his arms out, his feet kicking in his bright green blanket. Except he’s swaddled, so it just looks like a mouse trapped inside a burrito. Tadashi bites back a grin.

The baby must have been on Kei’s flight. The timing’s just right. Tadashi can’t wait to hear him complain about it, if Kei ever _does_ gets here. He glances toward the burrito baby again. He’s already asleep, just like that. Tadashi didn’t know they let mothers and babies off planes first. Maybe they don’t. Maybe Kei just needs to hurry it up already. 

Tadashi really has to pee.

He takes his chances. After all, Kei probably checked his luggage _at least_ four hours before his flight, because Kei works like that, so his bag will probably be the last to be unloaded. Tadashi decides that sounds right. He flees the carousel and pees the fastest he has in his entire life, patting his hands on his jeans when he exits the crowded washroom.

“Aren’t you supposed to be waiting for my bag?”

Tadashi whirls around. Kei stands there, six and a half feet tall in his best suit that he had to have specially made in the city because, again, _six and a half feet tall,_ and he grins as Tadashi’s face lights up.

“Tsukki!”

Tadashi pulls him from the flow of airport traffic. He pulls him down with a hand on the back of his neck and kisses him. Kei kisses him back, eager, carefree. His briefcase swings in his hand. They peel apart and Tadashi drops from his tiptoes. He bounces on the balls of his feet, beaming. Kei flushes red because he hates public displays of affection, and Tadashi knows it, he _gets_ that, but airports are an exception. Airport atmosphere is different. It’s full with love, with sympathy, and sometimes, with the smell of cheap leather, fast food, and tarmac.

“You smell like fries,” says Tadashi.

“You smell like home,” Kei says back.

Tadashi grabs his wrist and swings it back and forth with his excitement. Kei grins.

“Let’s go. Someone’s probably stolen my suitcase,” he claims, walking alongside Tadashi back to the baggage carousel. “Everything I need is in there.”

“I thought _I_ was all you need.”

Tadashi waves his hand in Kei’s face. Kei gives an affirmative hum and thumbs at Tadashi’s ring, circling it around his finger like a promise.


	5. freckles kiss

He starts with the clusters on Yamaguchi’s knees. Ticklish, Yamaguchi twitches under Tsukishima’s mouth, biting his lip with his effort to sit still. Tsukishima plants a kiss on each kneecap and another just below his left knee, where his freckles stray down his calf. Flecks of bronze adorn smooth, tan skin, and Tsukishima will kiss them all.

He takes his hands next. He pulls them to his mouth in his gentle grip and kisses Yamaguchi’s wrists, his lips dragging softly down to the backs of his hands to kiss there, too. One hand hosts a denser spatter than the other. Tsukishima kisses this one twice. Yamaguchi’s palms are wide and warm, his skin smooth but calloused. Tsukishima’s fingers trace the length of Yamaguchi’s arms. He pulls him closer.

A few lonely freckles perch on Yamaguchi’s right elbow. These took the longest for Tsukishima to find. They are faint. They are only pinpricks, not so pigmented as they are anyplace else. Tsukishima brushes his lips over the rough skin of Yamaguchi’s elbow. Like the freckles, his kiss is light, faint, hardly there.

Tsukishima hooks his finger over the collar of Yamaguchi’s shirt. He pulls it away to uncover the flecks that hide there, splattered vastly over his shoulder. Yamaguchi grips his shoulder as Tsukishima kisses them. His shoulders are sensitive, like his knees. Tsukishima lingers. He draws out slow, warm breaths against Yamaguchi’s hot skin until he feels goosebumps under his lips. For good measure, he kisses them, too.

His favorite freckles are the ones on Yamaguchi’s face. Broadly, they spill over his cheeks. They taper off just low enough to get caught in his dimples, but only when Yamaguchi laughs really, really hard. Tsukishima lifts his hands to his face. His palms cup Yamaguchi’s jaw. Tsukishima watches his face flush, a pretty peach blooming beneath his freckles, drawing them out. Yamaguchi’s eyes fall shut as Tsukishima leans close. His eyelashes sweep his nose. Tsukishima presses a poignant kiss to his cheek. He nudges the tip of Yamaguchi’s nose with his before he kisses his other cheek, too, soft lips adoring his favorite freckles of all.

Yamaguchi sighs. His breath ghosts Tsukishima’s cheek. Tsukishima smoothes his thumbs over the sides of his face and pulls back, his palms damp from the heat of Yamaguchi’s face. Slowly, Yamaguchi’s eyes flutter open. There are no freckles on his lips. Tsukishima kisses them regardless.


	6. laughing kiss

“Do you see anything now?”

Yamaguchi stifles a yawn. “No, Tsukki.”

“Am I boring you?”

“No, no. Just—waiting.”

“I’m going to get it. Give me another minute.”

“I’ll give you another minute, Tsukki. I’ll give you _several_ minutes.”

“How chivalrous,” Tsukishima huffs from behind the television.

Yamaguchi puffs a laugh. Pulling his legs to his chest, he sets the remote on the couch cushion next to him. He rests his chin on his knee. The television screen glares a blinding white. Tsukishima sits back on his knees to fumble with a couple of wires, trading red for yellow, and ducks behind the television again.

“You know, it would be a lot more chivalrous of me to actually help,” Yamaguchi mentions, trying not to stare at his butt.

“No. Stay there. I’m going to do it.”

He’s cute when he’s stubborn.

“Are you sure?”

Tsukishima’s reply is a preoccupied grunt. Thick wires smack against the hollow back of the television. The game console sits neglected at Tsukishima’s side.

“How am I supposed to know?” he mumbles to himself.

Yamaguchi hides his adoring grin behind his hand. Tsukishima retracts from the television, paper crinkling as he flips through the device manual, tossing it to the floor a moment later. There’s a muted clack as he tries a different combination of wires. The television screen stays as blank as it has for the last twenty minutes. Yamaguchi stares at the block of white until he sees little pink rectangles when he blinks.

“Now?” asks Tsukishima.

“Nothing, Tsukki.”

“Fuck,” he says flatly. “I don’t understand.”

He sits back on his heels, defeated. He picks up the manual again.

Another minute and Yamaguchi will go help him, no matter what he says. He stares at the blank screen and counts, watching Tsukishima’s face as he reads rather than just flips through the diagrams. Tsukishima pushes his glasses further up his nose, concentrating. Yamaguchi’s at thirty-six when Tsukishima’s face falls.

He lets the manual drop to his lap.

“What?” Yamaguchi asks, leaning forward.

Tsukishima shakes his head.

“What?” Yamaguchi presses. “What is it?”

“I, uh. I forgot I’m colorblind.”

He stares. Tsukishima stares back at him.

A quick grin breaks over his lips as Yamaguchi sputters an obnoxious laugh, spilling from the couch to crawl over to him. He looks so, so pitiful, his glasses smudged from how much he’d adjusted them, his hair rucked up from frustrated hands. An embarrassed blush blooms over his face. Tsukishima snorts a laugh into the back of his hand and shakes his head, still grinning as Yamaguchi climbs into his lap. He huffs another laugh to match him and Yamaguchi interrupts him with a kiss, his arms around his waist. Their shoulders still shake when they pull back. Yamaguchi smiles against Tsukishima’s mouth.

In ten seconds, they plug the console in without a hitch. Tsukishima blushes all evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3


	7. rain kiss

Tsukishima’s tablet slides down the wall, tugged by the shifting bedsheets as Tsukishima leans back. He scrubs his hands over his face and Yamaguchi sets it back properly, his eyes glued to the screen. The film's color palette is dim, dusty. But the few reds are rich and romantic, exaggerated by wide angles and zooms. Yamaguchi can’t look away.

Rain shines off the street like it never does in real life, and he mentions it to Tsukishima.

“It’s for contrast,” Tsukishima tells him. “Black asphalt won’t show up great on camera. So they emphasize reflections.” 

Yamaguchi eyes the shine of dull city lights on the wet street but the next shot forces his eye to the center of the screen where the couple kisses one another, fervent at first and then slower as rain soaks their clothes and splatters their faces. He glances at Tsukishima. Tsukishima huffs a yawn into his hand.

“It’s just impractical. Their building is right there.” He speaks through the tail-end of his yawn, making Yamaguchi sleepy. He rests his chin in his hand. “They could just go inside.”

“But it’s romantic, Tsukki. Out there, in the rain.”

The couple finally ducks inside their building. Tsukishima turns and looks at Yamaguchi, unimpressed.

“Is it, though? Their clothes are soaked through for no reason, and now what?”

Yamaguchi turns back. “They take them off.”

“Oh,” says Tsukishima as they watch the film, the couple on the screen doing _precisely_ what Yamaguchi predicted. The man’s button-down shirt flutters to the hardwood floor. Tsukishima flushes and ducks his head to rest on the cross of his arms. His stare skitters across the screen, not really watching. “How predictable.”

The soundtrack lulls for a minute. Yamaguchi listens but all he hears outside is the rush of the wind through dry, dry grass. 

So, he waits.

It takes nine days for the clouds above town to grow dark and bulbous with precipitation, and even then, Yamaguchi has a short window. The sky itself is bright. Yamaguchi wastes no time. He knocks and knocks and knocks at his door and it opens to Tsukishima still in his pajamas, looking vaguely pissed off. Yamaguchi smiles. Rain batters his umbrella. Tsukishima scratches a hand through his bedhead and frowns.

“I’m in my pajamas,” he protests as Yamaguchi tugs him from his porch. Tsukishima gives little fight, coming along despite his complaints, only muttering a sigh when Yamaguchi stops in the middle of his yard. The umbrella’s metal spine creaks when it’s tossed to the grass. “Yamaguchi, do you know what fatal attraction is?”

“The movie?” Yamaguchi asks, blinking away raindrops.

“No. It’s when the very thing you found attractive about a person in the first place, like their spontaneity, for example, leads to problems later on in relationships. For example, when said person pounds on your front door and pulls you into a rainstorm at seven in the morning on your only day off.”

“Very funny, Tsukki.”

“I’m not laughing.” Tsukishima adjusts his glasses, which is ridiculous because there is no way he can see past the rain that drips from their lenses anyway. Yamaguchi grins up at him. His hand slides easily over his cheek, still the slightest bit warm despite the chill of rainwater. Tsukishima leans into his touch. “What exactly are we doing out here?”

“Seeing something.”

Yamaguchi peels Tsukishima’s glasses from his face before he makes some quip about only seeing fat, fuzzy raindrops. He keeps his other hand on his cheek and tilts Tsukishima’s lips closer to his. Rain showers the front walkway and the parched grass of Tsukishima’s lawn. The pleasant chorus contrasts the dark, bloated clouds overhead and Yamaguchi closes the gap between them.

Their kiss keeps all the warmth the rain lacks, Tsukishima’s instant pressure and Yamaguchi’s smothered grin, their hands cupping each other’s faces. Rain seeps between their fingers. Yamaguchi brings himself closer when Tsukishima shivers and their clothes squelch wetly where they meet. It’s unexpected and comical and Tsukishima mirrors Yamaguchi’s grin, parting his cool lips so Yamaguchi can kiss the contrasting warmth of his mouth. Cool raindrops slide between their lips as they kiss; fleeting hints of frigidity. Deeply, Tsukishima hums. The storm drowns the sound but Yamaguchi feels the pleasant buzz against his lips, dripping with rainwater.

Thunder booms. They pull back from one another with warm, static grins.

“That was romantic,” pants Yamaguchi, “wasn’t it, Tsukki?”

“Yes. Fine.” Tsukishima looks away, his face pink. He turns back and pushes a hand through Yamaguchi’s hair. He blinks against the rain. His thumb is soft as it slides down Yamaguchi’s jaw, the rainfall gaining momentum, echoing around them like applause. “It was romantic.”

“I knew it.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes, but he grins all the same.


	8. anticipated kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't believe we're over a week into this challenge! yeeees. if you wanna recommended a kiss prompt for me to do in the coming weeks, check the current list and let me know [here](http://deanpendragon.tumblr.com/post/168334396759/deanpendragon-so-i-think-im-gonna-write-a), or just shoot me a message on tumblr. happy suggesting, and reading!
> 
> <3

Electric charges produce electric fields, electric currents produce magnetic fields, and Yamaguchi is this close to drooling all over the four-inch thick electromagnetism book that he paid way too much for. His fingertip traces the diagram of a lightning bolt in the corner of the page. His skin squeaks against the glossy paper; the most fun he’s had all afternoon.

“Hey.”

Tsukishima looms large in the doorway to their room. He’s pink in the face from the walk home.

“Hey, Tsukki, how was class?”

“Fine. Are you busy?”

His book protests with a heavy slap when Yamaguchi flips it shut. “Nope.”

“Good,” says Tsukishima, dropping his bag on the floor.

“Yeah, Tsukki?”

“Yeah. I want to try something.” Yamaguchi stands when Tsukishima gestures him to. Tsukishima’s steps are quiet. He pads to Yamaguchi and stands in front of him, swaying a little, their toes touching. He smells warm. He smells like summer. “Something I saw in a movie.”

His breath is minty fresh as it ghosts Yamaguchi’s face. Yamaguchi gulps.

“What, uh—what kind of movies are you watching?” he kids.

“Don’t kiss me until I say so.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t kiss me until I say to kiss me,” Tsukishima reiterates, slower this time. Yamaguchi blinks at him. He tips his chin up so their noses touch, testing him, but Tsukishima leans back. He means business. Anticipation roils in Yamaguchi’s chest. Tsukishima says, “I want to see how far we get. Okay?”

Yamaguchi nods and their noses bump again. This time, Tsukishima stays.

“Sure. Okay, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima nods back. His palms skim Yamaguchi’s arms. He draws in a breath and rests their foreheads together, his hands searching lower, dragging the fabric of Yamaguchi’s shirt up his sides. Yamaguchi nods against him. He leans back so he can take it off, toss it onto the desk or the floor, but Tsukishima makes no move to. He brings Yamaguchi close again with a gentle hand on the nape of his neck. His eyes flutter open. Yamaguchi looks past the reflection of himself in Tsukishima’s glasses. His pupils are wide, ringed with gold.

His hand ducks under Yamaguchi’s shirt. He pushes his fingertips into the soft skin of his abdomen and drags them up, bringing the warm, familiar pressure up, up to his throat and down, down again. Yamaguchi slides his forehead off Tsukishima’s. He wraps an arm around his neck, sighing into his shoulder.

“Mm,” Tsukishima hums, dipping three of his fingers below the waistband of Yamaguchi’s shorts. "Tadashi."

Yamaguchi gasps. He shifts his hips. Tsukishima drags his fingers back and forth, from one hip to the other, sinking them deeper in the gaps where Yamaguchi’s waistband stretches from his skin, shoved outward by protruding hipbones. Yamaguchi’s hand twitches. He reaches swiftly around Tsukishima to grab his ass and squeeze. He pushes Tsukishima’s hips closer, trapping his hand between them.

Tsukishima’s jaw goes slack. He leans back so Yamaguchi can see it. He drags his tongue over his lip and Yamaguchi ogles his wet pout, so close he could almost have it for himself. He grabs Tsukishima harder and watches his lip twitch. Tsukishima pulls his hand from between their bodies. He presses his palm to Yamaguchi’s back so he can suck at his ear, the lobe between his teeth. Tsukishima’s hot breath hammers at his eardrum and Yamaguchi leans closer to his mouth, tilting his ear toward Tsukishima’s wet tongue, heaving a sigh at the slick heat and the slow, wet fullness.

His hands shake. They reach to cup Tsukishima’s face, to rearrange him so Yamaguchi can stare at him, can feel his breath on his mouth. Tsukishima comes to him easily. Eyes half-lidded, Tsukishima stares. They pant together. Their breath, warm and heavy, fogs Tsukishima’s lenses. Yamaguchi swirls his thumbs over Tsukishima’s jaw. His fingers still tremble like he needs to burn off electricity somehow—the electricity he usually discharges by kissing, with his lips and tongue and teeth. Static crackles in his body. Yamaguchi leans forward, nuzzling Tsukishima’s nose. He drags his lips down his jawbone. He brings his mouth to Tsukishima’s forehead in a languid press.

He does the same to the corner of Tsukishima’s mouth. Not a kiss; just a press with a parted mouth, but still not innocent. Tsukishima goes still. Yamaguchi stays for a minute, their mouths achingly close. Just an inch and he could kiss him. He starts to turn but stops himself. Tsukishima pants faintly. Yamaguchi steels himself and leans back, his lips buzzing. Tsukishima runs his tongue over his bottom lip to wet it. Yamaguchi curses weakly.

"This is hard," he admits, his voice low.

"Hold on," murmurs Tsukishima.

His hands fall from his back. He grips Yamaguchi’s waist and ducks his head to lick the base of his throat. His mouth would be slippery if he could kiss him right now. His lips would be red and shining, so slick and practiced. Yamaguchi chews at the inside of his cheek to squash the thought and presses his mouth to Tsukishima’s hair. He breathes in his summer scent and Tsukishima sucks on his neck, his shoulder, timidly nipping at his skin as Yamaguchi’s hands lie heavy on his shoulders.

Yamaguchi’s breath comes hard. His pulse smacks at his wrists. He digs his fingers into Tsukishima’s shoulder and Tsukishima straightens to look at him, leaving cool, wet spots on his skin. His face is flushed, his lips red. They’re swollen from how they’ve worked. His mouth parts further as he pants, his forehead returning to rest against Yamaguchi’s. His irises are threads of gold around his pupils. Spit shines from his mouth. Yamaguchi bites the inside of his cheek again, holding back. The hair on his arms stands up. Tsukishima glances down. He pushes closer. His nose nudges Yamaguchi's, all his warmth and ease and yearning and static culminating in the mere centimeter that separates them.

“Kiss me,” he sighs, desperate, sliding his tongue across Yamaguchi’s lower lip.

And Yamaguchi does.


	9. last kiss

The only time the car arrived early is the day Tadashi left.

Kei called for it on the phone. Online is faster. He wasn’t put on hold and there was no generic hold music or convenient pre-recorded ads. No apology for clogged lines or preoccupied personnel. They picked up on the first ring and he got right through. Kei tipped the driver ahead of time but didn’t tell Tadashi; he wanted it to be a pleasant surprise. One less thing for Tadashi to bother with.

There was nothing in his bags but his entire life, and they were heavy with that. Their handles tore the skin of Kei’s hands as he gripped them. Their little plastic feet scraped on the sidewalk. Kei thought in syllables. He thought in fragments. A tune looped around his head, something Tadashi hummed the week before. Kei held onto that.

He lined up the luggage on the sidewalk perfectly. He made sure of it. Kei stood there for ten minutes adjusting and readjusting their angles while the taxi driver watched through the passenger side window. Plastic stubs scraped concrete. Zippers clinked against their tracks in the breeze. The cacophony rattled in Kei’s head. Ten minutes later, the bags were crooked again. Tadashi stopped him when he tried to right them. His touch was light like if he pressed too hard, he’d stick and their skin would adhere to one another's. Would weld like hot metal.

Kei didn’t cry, but Tadashi did. The taxi sat on the street while Tadashi cried in the driveway. Kei held him. He held him and he waited. He waited for the hiss, the steam, the sizzle of their skin as it melted into one smooth, hot plane. Tadashi left dark spots on the shoulder of Kei’s shirt. Kei pressed his hand to the fabric, the pattern damp on his palm. He felt his heart in the soles of his shoes. The spots took ages to dry.

Their kiss was feather-light, like kissing the breeze. Kei wanted to cry, then.

The driver put the luggage in the car. He ripped them from Kei’s perfect arrangement and nestled them in the trunk. The taxi jostled and rumbled, bouncing on its tires. The engine growled. The meter ticked. Tadashi turned away. He stood with Kei, in front of him. He loved him. Kei saw it.

The driver’s door slammed shut. The sound echoed off the house and bounced away forever.


	10. first kiss

Tsukishima sloshes the last of the milk around the bottom of the carton.

“Why don’t you just finish them?” he asks. He sets the carton on the counter with the others. “Instead of drinking from multiple until they’re all half-empty? Just drink one. Finish one.”

Tadashi grins into the fridge. Tsukishima scoots a jar of pickles to the side of the shelf, out of the way.

“I don’t know why we don’t finish them, really. It just sort of happens.”

“When you want milk, why not reach for the emptiest carton and finish it, though?”

Tsukishima mumbles to himself now, moving various jars and plastic containers out of their way, probably itemizing the sparse contents of his own fridge at home and all the clean, open space it provides without a half-dozen half-empty milk cartons cluttering its shelves. Tadashi watches the pale fridge light bend over the soft curves of his face.

Tadashi’s neighbors drink and dance their Saturday away. The bass thumps straight through the shared wall. His neighbors drink and dance and kiss and fuck and he and Tsukishima organize his refrigerator, their fingers stiff from fondling cold glass and plastic.

“Are you even sure you have it? Soy milk?” Tsukishima asks him.

“I _know_ I bought it. I don’t see it, though.”

He looks over the half-empty cartons. “What’s wrong with these?”

“I just—I got soy. For me.” Tadashi busies himself with shuffling through the middle shelf of the fridge, reserved for beer. He wonders if they have the same brew next door, or if their beer is something more expensive and tasteful. “To help my face,” he goes on, turning a can so the label faces outward. “I saw it online.”

Tsukishima follows suit. He turns backwards cans forward again. Their arms brush.

“What about it?” Tsukishima mumbles.

“Huh?”

“Your face,” he answers. “What about it?”

Tadashi stills with his fingers around the rim of the can he turns.

“Uh, you know, Tsukki. No dairy’s supposed to help with, like…pimples, and stuff.”

He blinks at the back wall of the fridge. His face heats up even with the cool air flow. He and Tsukishima have never talked about his face before, because why would they, and his skin flares hotter like he’s suddenly reminded he _has_ one. Especially when Tsukishima turns to stare at him.

“You look fine,” he says.

Tadashi stares back at him. Ten years of knowing him and he has never said a single thing about Tadashi's appearance, except for the time they were eight and he told him his hair was the same color as loamy, calcium-ridden soil, the ideal kind to grow plants in. Tadashi told him thanks, but he hadn’t known what loamy meant. He still kind of doesn’t.

“Fine,” Tadashi repeats, grinning a little. “How neutral of you, Tsukki.”

“Is there something you would rather me say?”

Tadashi’s grin falters. The bass beat pumps through the wall.

“No. I mean, I don’t know.”

Tsukishima watches him. His skin is so clear, so pale and smooth like it’s always been. No bumps or scars or patches of color. Just bright and glowing under the dull fridge light, only the tip of his nose pink from the chill. Tadashi glances away to ogle the beer cans.

He could think of ten thousand things to say about Tsukishima and how he looks. Probably more than that. Especially if he’s had a few beers. He gazes wistfully at the cool cans, stacked in plentiful rows to the back of the fridge because he and his roommates hardly touch them, although they’re nice to have. His shoulder brushes Tsukishima’s. He’s nice and warm against him.

“I could think of something else.” Tsukishima gazes at him steadily. “If you like.”

His stare holds warmth, and Tadashi’s face is hot enough as it is, so Tadashi stares past him at the milk jugs on the counter. He debates on pouring them all into one in a half-assed attempt to declutter. His roommates would be proud. But he knows the fridge would end up in the same state next week. It’s like he told Tsukishima. It just sort of happens.

He gulps in a breath at the touch of Tsukishima’s fingers on his cheek. Huddled together in front of the open fridge, he finally gets Tadashi to look back at him. Tsukishima leans close. He smells like pine, like detergent. Clean and fresh. Tadashi shuts his eyes and feels the slight pressure of Tsukishima’s cool fingertips on his flushed face, the warmth of his company as he crowds closer. Tsukishima nudges their noses together, waiting. Tadashi pulls in a deep, slow breath. He tilts his head.

Their mouths meet in a soft, sweet kiss.

Tadashi lifts his hand to mirror Tsukishima’s, cradling his face in his palm, coaxing him closer still. Chatter and stereo music pound at the wall. Tsukishima breaks the kiss to exhale a damp breath on Tadashi’s lips. He tilts his head and kisses him again, so soft and patient. Tadashi strokes his thumb over his cheek. His heart balloons in his chest, kindling sparks where it grates against his ribcage.

He simmers down as they separate but his face still burns hot, his palm steady on Tsukishima’s cheek. Tsukishima watches him for a reply.

“That wasn’t very neutral of you,” Tadashi says finally.

“Wasn’t it?” asks Tsukishima.

Tadashi shakes his head, grinning widely. Tsukishima presses an unhurried kiss to his cheek.

“Good.”


	11. calming kiss

Kei watches Yamaguchi trade his weight between his feet. Shimada’s footsteps echo in the empty hallway, past where Kei hides around a distant corner and waits. Yamaguchi stands in their encouraging wake. Squeaks and whistles float down the hall from the gymnasium. Hands curled into fists at his sides, Yamaguchi won’t budge.

Kei only rounds the corner when all he hears is Yamaguchi’s endless shifting: the slick sound of his jersey fabric, the swish of his shorts, the clinking of his jacket zipper against its track. Kei stops in front of him. Yamaguchi’s eyes are bright and sharp in the egregious hallway lighting, but they soften when they find Kei. His fists uncurl. He trades his weight to his opposite foot and Kei glances down to watch his fingertips skim the hem of his shorts before he curls them in again.

“The game will start soon.”

“I know,” says Yamaguchi, but he doesn’t move.

He turns and the collar of his jersey shifts, revealing a fresh purple bruise that’s bloomed on his neck. Kei looks away.

“Does that hurt?” he asks.

Yamaguchi turns back. He pinpoints where Kei stares and pushes his fingers to the hickey, wincing.

“Not really, Tsukki. Worth it.”

“You winced.”

“I mean,” Yamaguchi drawls, poking at it again, “I’d rather have it than not have it. You know?”

Kei knows. He nods and steps closer. Yamaguchi’s arm falls to his side again. Eager voices bubble down the hallway and it’s not a moment before a group of players turns the corner and saunters past them, their chatter harmless but loud. Yamaguchi stares hard at the ground. A flush dyes the high points of his cheeks.

“Is that them? The other team?”

“I think so,” answers Kei. “We have to go.”

“I can’t. My legs won’t move, Tsukki,” he says. Kei stares. Yamaguchi frowns, angry with himself. He lifts his head to look at him. “I’m not confident like you are.”

“I never said I was confident.”

A roar erupts from the court on the other side of the wall. Yamaguchi flinches stiffly.

“I said I was coming to get you,” Kei tells him. “I can’t come back without you.”

A moment passes. Yamaguchi scrubs frustrated hands over his face. He keeps his face in his palms and Kei turns over his shoulder. The hallway has emptied save the two of them. Players have flooded the court, spectators have flooded the bleachers. The sole of Kei’s shoe squeaks on the tile as he steps forward. He taps Yamaguchi’s wrist. Yamaguchi peels his face from his hands.

Kei crowds close and kisses him. He curls his fingers loosely around his wrist as Yamaguchi leans into it. With a soft hand on his cheek, Kei lingers on his lips, staying until Yamaguchi melts against him. His shoulders slacken. His fingers lose their tremble. Kei pulls back with a soft click and watches him.

“Relax. Loosen up.”

It takes a moment, but Yamaguchi nods. His grin is easy, fluid.

“Okay. Yeah, Tsukki.”

Kei reaches out and pokes the bruise on his neck with a smirk.

“Ow,” Yamaguchi protests.

He reaches out to poke Kei back where his twin bruise hides beneath the collar of his jersey, but Kei steps back. The sudden screech of a distant whistle bounces around the hallway. The gymnasium racket carries right through the wall, eager and insistent. Kei and Yamaguchi look at each other.

“Are you ready?” asks Kei.

Yamaguchi’s shoulders rise with a deep, patient breath. He nods.

“Yeah,” he insists. “I’m ready now.”


	12. cooking kiss

“Fold, then turn, Yamaguchi.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

“No. You’re turning before you fold.”

Tsukishima demonstrates the proper way, folding the dough with the bench knife before he turns it to do the same over again. Yamaguchi frowns at the chocolate chip-speckled dough. A cloud of flour puffs onto their aprons when the heavy dough hits the table. Yamaguchi’s stomach growls.

“I just want to eat it.”

“Too bad,” says Tsukishima. “Fold, then turn.”

The little sunlight that’s come out to play glows through the bakery windows, gleaming dully off the kitchen equipment. In his concentration, Tsukishima’s glasses slip down his nose. When he pushes them back up, he leaves a floury fingerprint on the black plastic. Yamaguchi looks away to hide his grin.

Tsukishima notes, “You aren’t helping.”

“I’m no baker, Tsukki.”

“And I am?” Pressing the flat of his palms to the dough to spread it, he sighs. He wipes his hands on his apron and takes the bread knife up again. “Akaashi-san said he would take one of my shifts if I cover this for him. I’m going off a Youtube video. I feel like a child trying to make a lava lamp in a soda bottle while their parents aren’t home.”

Yamaguchi reaches up and brushes away the flour on the bridge of his glasses.

“It looks good,” he insists. “Yours looks just like the video.”

Tsukishima hums noncommittally. Yamaguchi mimics his steps on the dough in front of him until it starts to look like his and, while Tsukishima assesses, Yamaguchi drags his finger through the thin film of flour on the baking table. He presses it swiftly to the tip of Tsukishima’s nose. Tsukishima blinks at him.

“Are you trying to make me sneeze?”

“Right onto the dough we’ve worked on for three hours now,” Yamaguchi adds with a nod.

“It hasn’t been an hour yet. And I said I’d buy you coffee if you helped.”

Tsukishima would buy him coffee either way, but Yamaguchi doesn’t mention it. He just grins and presses a flour-caked fingertip to his own nose. 

“Now we match,” he says.

“Hurray,” Tsukishima deadpans, but his lips quirk up for a moment despite himself.

He takes his phone from his apron pocket and starts the tutorial video over again. Yamaguchi watches dutifully. The dough smells sweet on the table. His stomach growls again. Tsukishima leaves traces of flour on his phone when he pockets it again and straightens out his apron, immaculate in comparison to Yamaguchi’s. Yamaguchi tries to brush away the flour dust to no avail.

“How are you so filthy?” asks Tsukishima, watching him.

“I don’t know, Tsukki. I thought I was being good.”

Tsukishima hums and leans over. “Your dough looks better, at least.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Good job.”

Yamaguchi grins victoriously. He tries to brush off his apron once more before he gives up, adding to the mess. He pats a little pile of flour with his fingers, turns, and swipes it across Tsukishima’s mouth. Tsukishima hums his protest against his fingertips. Flour sprinkles his apron when he frowns.

“Unsanitary,” he drones. “Go wash your hands again.”

“True. I don’t know where your mouth has been.”

Tsukishima waits a beat. “You do, actually.”

Yamaguchi sputters a laugh and sways into Tsukishima’s shoulder. His laugh bounces off the dozing kitchen equipment around them. Tsukishima grins down at the thick mounds of dough on the table. He waits another moment before he turns and closes the space between them, bringing his mouth to Yamaguchi’s in a swift, firm press.

Pleasantly surprised, Yamaguchi hums against him. Tsukishima leans back and mirrors his grin. He swipes his thumb over the corner of Yamaguchi’s mouth, slow and careful. It’s dusted with flour when he takes it away.

“Now we match.”


	13. neck kiss

Yamaguchi wakes to a soft tapping at his door just after midnight.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Tsukki. How was your day?”

“Long. Can I come in?”  
  
“I tried to call you, but I think I fell asleep. Well, I definitely fell asleep,” Yamaguchi clarifies.

Surreptitiously, he shuffles his notes to cover the drool spot on his book; a tome Tsukishima gifted him a year ago. Dust is so ingrained in the intricacies of its cover that Yamaguchi wonders just how many centuries it’s seen, and just how many hands have grasped it like his. Tsukishima stands in the threshold of Yamaguchi’s apartment. He leans his head against the doorway.

“I’m glad you’re here now, though.”

“Yamaguchi.”

“Although you look a little worse for wear…”

“Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima sighs. “Invite me in.”

“Oh, right. You can come in.”

Yamaguchi kicks out a kitchen chair for him but Tsukishima heads for the couch, so Yamaguchi gets up and follows. Tsukishima’s head lolls back. It rests on the back of the couch and his eyes fall shut. He does look worse for wear. For the first time, it looks as if the book he’d given Yamaguchi really did belong to him, and in its pinnacle. Even his blond hair has gone ashy. But he may have just flown down someone’s chimney. When he asks, Tsukishima rolls his head to the side. He peeks his eye open and watches him.

“No. I have not invaded someone’s home via fireplace. It would be illegal, anyway.”

“For you and me both, Tsukki.”

“Because I hadn’t been invited.”

“I know, I know,” Yamaguchi says, brushing miscellaneous fuzz off his jeans. “I was just joking.”

He pulls his leg up on the couch to face Tsukishima. The television across the coffee table flickers with static because Yamaguchi sat on the remote. Tsukishima huffs another tired sigh. His face is gaunt. Yamaguchi picks at a loose thread on the couch cushion before he drops it to brush his fingertips over the black velvet string around Tsukishima’s neck. Tsukishima barely notices.

“Feeling traditional?” Yamaguchi wonders.

Tsukishima peeks at him again. “Nostalgic, more like.”

“It’s nice.”

“Halloween isn’t too far off. I can still get away with it,” he says, shifting his shoulders, scratching the thick material of his cape against the couch. He goes lax again, worn out by the meager motion. “People will just think I paid a lot of money to make it look true to form. Which I did, at one time.”

Yamaguchi grins. He sinks into the couch with him. He ogles the twin swells in Tsukishima’s upper lip.

“When can you eat next?” he asks softly.

“Soon,” Tsukishima answers, and he winces like it hurts to admit it.

Feeding has been off and on lately. Yamaguchi knows that. It’s easy to tell when Tsukishima has eaten. He knows his shiny blond hair, his smooth, healthy skin, the golden spark in his eye like the ones that fly off the striker sheet when Yamaguchi tries to get a match going for his candles; one of the only still-relevant methods of old that Tsukishima has turned him onto. A half-dozen ink pots line Yamaguchi’s desk like little soldiers next to a quill he bought at an ironic, new-age bookstore in the city.

“Tsukki, you know. If you ever, you know, _need_ it—”

“No. I’ll be fine by this time tomorrow.”

Yamaguchi finds his hand on the couch between them.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “Just not a lot, because I kind of want to live. But I can help you.”

Tsukishima squeezes his hand not-so-gently.

“No. You don’t want that.”

“I want to help. Because, well, I love you.”

Not a second passes before Tsukishima is on top of him, his thighs astride his hips, and he pushes Yamaguchi back with incredible, nauseating power. When the shock of the change passes, Yamaguchi really feels him. He’s sturdier, somehow. His frame presses harder on Yamaguchi’s bones than it does when Tsukishima is young. Yamaguchi feels his heartbeat behind his eyes. His vision twitches.

“You don’t want that,” Tsukishima repeats himself. “For me to bite you. Drain you. You don’t want that, and neither do I. Stop offering.” He leans forward, his hands braced on the spine of the couch. He presses his mouth to Yamaguchi’s ear. “Besides,” he whispers, “you aren’t a virgin. I _know_ that.”

Yamaguchi’s breath comes hard and fast.

He pants, “I thought that was a myth. You told me so.”

Tsukishima leans back. He smirks.

“Yes. I just thought it would be amusing to say.”

Yamaguchi rests his hands on Tsukishima’s thighs and draws them up and down again, his heart still racing, the shell of his ear moist from the humidity of Tsukishima’s breath. Tsukishima resettles on his lap. His fingers push Yamaguchi’s shoulders back. He inches forward. With a meticulous hand on Yamaguchi’s chin, he tilts his head to the side. He bares his neck.

Yamaguchi twitches when Tsukishima’s breath ghosts his skin. His eyes strain to watch but he can’t see without turning from Tsukishima’s grip. He shuts his eyes. He draws all his focus to his neck, to where Tsukishima’s mouth hovers just centimeters above his skin.

Tsukishima places a kiss below his jawbone. With soft, delicate presses, he kisses down Yamaguchi’s neck, halting when he nears his collarbone. Yamaguchi draws out a sigh. He twitches under Tsukishima’s warm weight. Tsukishima slides his hands down to rest on his shoulders and places a lingering, open-mouthed kiss on Yamaguchi’s neck. His jaw moves slowly, rhythmically. His chin nudges Yamaguchi’s collarbone as he sucks and tongues at his tan skin, dying it red, and soon purple. The warm, wet sucking sounds rattle through him. Yamaguchi lifts his hands to grip Tsukishima’s waist. He tries to tug him closer but, immovable as concrete, Tsukishima doesn’t budge.

Tsukishima slides a hand into his hair. He cocks his head back. Yamaguchi wonders if he can see his pulse smack at his skin, because Yamaguchi can hardly hear anything else; just a swift, wild booming between his ears. Tsukishima sighs near the tiptop of his throat. Yamaguchi shivers. He blinks at his ceiling, waiting.

His eyes squeeze shut at the twin pokes of Tsukishima’s sharpest teeth. He pushes out a harsh breath and, feeling his excitement, Tsukishima strokes the hair at the back of his head. Yamaguchi stays stiff. Tsukishima pauses to lap at his skin until Yamaguchi melts under him again. Tsukishima sighs a breath that’s cool on his damp skin.

Yamaguchi whines as Tsukishima drags his teeth down his neck, just over the swell of his throat. Tsukishima turns to press his mouth to Yamaguchi’s pulse. It beats swiftly under his lips, his tongue. Yamaguchi still feels the pressure of his teeth, the sting of their points despite the lack of punctures. Tsukishima breathes harder than he does now. Restlessly, he shifts on Yamaguchi’s lap. He allows himself a final, placid nip at the base of Yamaguchi’s throat before he laps at his skin. His last kiss is warm, soothing. He tilts Yamaguchi’s head down again to stare at him. Yamaguchi blinks, dazed, overheating. Tsukishima’s lips brush his.

“I love you, too.”


	14. near-death kiss

Hot and wet. Like bathwater, only denser.

“Look at me, okay? _Look._ ”

Kei does as he’s told, but he looks through him, right out the back of Tadashi’s head. His lips form around muted words. Tadashi pets the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

“It’s okay. H—hey, it’s okay.”

His wrist aches from the pressure.

“I’ve got you, Kei.”

His eyes don’t leave Kei’s for a moment.

“Help is coming, okay? They—they’re going to help you.”

Tadashi leans all his weight on his hand, forcing it to Kei’s stomach. It must be excruciating. But Kei’s eyes are nothing but _soft_. Blood seeps between Tadashi’s fingers. Kei glances away.

“Kei. _Kei_.”

He glances back. Tadashi nods and rubs his palm against his cheek.

“Just look at me.”

Too much blood seeps between his fingers to hold any back but Tadashi presses on, leaning every ounce of himself onto his hand, bringing his face closer to Kei’s, focusing there rather than the scrambled, mutilated skin of his stomach under his palm.

“Don’t stop looking at me.”

Kei wheezes.

“Kei, fuck, please don’t—don’t—”

Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. Tadashi blinks through hot, heavy tears.

“ _Hey_ , look at me, do you love me? _Do you_ _love me_?”

He cups the back of Kei’s head. His hair shifts over his palm when Kei nods. Tadashi nods back at him.

“Then look only at me.”

Tears roll from his face onto Kei’s, clearing wet trails through the grime on his skin, mixing with blood, diluting it.

“They’re—they’re coming, I know it. Kei, stay here. Right here, with me.”

He lifts his head, leans over him, and kisses his mouth. His lips aren’t warmer than his blood. But Tadashi can pretend.

“Love you…”

He mumbles the promise against him. Kei puffs a hot breath on his mouth. His reciprocation. Tadashi nods and nods. Tears sting and sear his eyes but he won’t close them. He kisses his cheek, his forehead, his nose. Blood dries quickly on his lips.

“Absolutely love you.”

When Tadashi pulls back, Kei looks at him. Really looks at him.

Sirens wail in the distance.


	15. interrupted kiss

Tadashi starts with quick, fleeting kisses the way Kei likes. He rests his hands on Kei’s knees. Kei curls his hand over the side of Tadashi’s neck and kisses him back, sweet and simple, and Tadashi takes each second Kei doesn’t pull back as a victory. Kissing Kei is like a puzzle; one he’d gladly take apart the second he’d finished just so he could piece it all together again.

Kei cards his fingers through his hair. Tadashi inches his hand up his thigh.

What he really wants is just to take Kei’s face in his wide hands and kiss, kiss, kiss him until they can’t breathe, panting when they pull back, their mouths sore and slick. It’s happened before. It usually happens when Kei is feeling _some type of way_ —the way Tadashi feels every time he sees him—and Tadashi could honestly blow just thinking about it. Kei’s jaw under his palms. His tongue sliding along his. His nose scrunched against Tadashi’s because neither of them takes care to tilt their head.

On his lips, Kei starts to linger. He pulls away unhurriedly and comes back to him quicker. He asks for more pressure with a coaxing hand on the nape of Tadashi’s neck. Tadashi obliges, leaving one hand on Kei’s thigh while the other mirrors him, pushing at the nape of his neck, bringing them closer.

Kei starts to melt. His shoulders lose their stiffness, his steadfast reserve finally leaking away under Tadashi’s hands, Tadashi’s mouth. Things usually move fast once Kei opens his mouth. The easy slide of their tongues. The constant, clicking catch of their lips. Tadashi parts his lips against Kei’s, asking for that warmth and wetness, that closeness. His hand grips Kei’s thigh. His thumb rubs the denim of his jeans. Kei closes his fist around the hair at the back of Tadashi’s head. Gently, he tugs. Tadashi lets out a breath against him. His insides thrum.

Kei tilts his head. His mouth parts, finally, his breath warm on Tadashi’s lips. Tadashi cups his face with eager hands. He leans forward.

Tadashi’s bedroom door is flung against the opposite wall with an ungodly _smack_.

“Hey! Guys! The movie’s about to start!”

Kei leans back and sighs into the space he’s put between them. He glares over his shoulder.

“I _told_ you we weren’t watching. We’re busy. Can’t you see that?”

Hinata blinks at them. “I mean, you don’t look _that_ busy. Hey, Yamaguchi!”

“Hi, Hinata.”

“There are plenty more, uh, _compromising_ positions you guys could’ve been in, you know?”

“Get out,” says Kei.

Hinata salutes them and leaves, flinging the door shut behind him. Tadashi’s heart still races.

“Plenty more compromising positions?” he repeats, grinning up at Kei.

“Apparently.”

“Too bad we weren’t in them, Tsukki.”

Kei rolls his eyes. His lips quirk up in a quiet grin. He tips forward and rests his forehead on Tadashi’s shoulder, his hand still warm on the nape of his neck. Tadashi ducks to press his cheek to Kei’s soft hair. He sighs.

“This is good too, though.”


	16. horny kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're halfway done! how does december just slide by like this?
> 
> still taking suggestions on tumblr, and [HERE](http://deanpendragon.tumblr.com/post/168617860534/deanpendragon-so-i-think-im-gonna-write-a) is an updated list of prompts i have completed or want to eventually complete. <3
> 
> happy reading!

He and Kei’s building doesn’t have a gym but the one next door does, and if Tadashi’s real nice, he can usually sweet talk the ladies who hang out in the lobby into letting him in once or twice a week. If he feels super confident, he’ll just buzz a random apartment and say he forgot his key. It usually works. And if it doesn’t, no real harm done. It is by far the most deceptive thing Tadashi’s done in all his twenty-five years. And he kind of likes it.

The building next door is nice, but theirs is nicer. Tadashi loves the clean, detergent smell of the hallways, the shiny ceiling tiles, the smooth dip the elevator does just before it lands on the right floor, like a mini roller coaster. The doors open with a sharp _ping_ and he breathes in the clean hallway air. He trades his weight from foot to sore foot on the welcome mat as he fumbles to get his key in the door.

Tadashi toes off his sneakers. He nudges them out of the way so Kei won’t scold him and goes straight to the kitchen sink, filling a glass to the brim and downing it.

“Finally.”

Kei stands in the kitchen archway, shirtless, and Tadashi is suddenly thirsty again.

“G’morning, Tsukki. Is it hot in here?” he wonders. “Or is it just you, huh?”

Kei smirks. “Lame.”

“I’m tired. I tried.”

He pads across the kitchen in his bare feet and kisses Tadashi’s cheek. Tadashi leans back to kiss him—something short, something to greet him, a swift press before Kei pulls away again—but instead, Kei slides his tongue over Tadashi’s bottom lip and breathes warmly into his mouth, vying for more. A shiver rolls up Tadashi’s back. He nudges Kei’s tongue with his. Pleased, Kei nods against him. He absolutely radiates warmth, in his mouth and his body, in his sparkly eyes when he pulls back to watch him. Tadashi’s lost in gold.

Kei hums and steps around him to press into his back, hot and steady. Tadashi hums back. The fabric of his workout shirt is loose, thin, and Kei’s skin is still warm, probably from their bed. Tadashi curls his fingers over the lip of the sink and pushes back on him. Against him, Kei firms up. Tadashi huffs a sharp breath at the feeling.

Kei spins him around with a hand on his waist and kisses him again, quick but poignant. His long arms wind around Tadashi’s middle. He hoists Tadashi up onto the kitchen counter and smooths his palms over his thighs as he leans up to kiss him deeper. Any fatigue Tadashi felt is gone, replaced by _need_. Their bare skin buzzes where his arms lock around Kei’s neck. Kei’s hands are busy, flitting over Tadashi’s sides, brushing his face, dipping beneath his shirt to rest on his stomach.

“You’re hot,” Kei tells him, pressing his palms to Tadashi’s abdomen. “Did you run?”

Tadashi swallows a sigh and nods. “Yeah—yeah, I probably stink.”

“I don’t care.”

His eyes fall shut when Kei mouths at his neck. He presses damp kisses in a line up to his jawbone until he finds his mouth again. He nips at Tadashi’s lower lip and tugs at the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head when Tadashi leans back to let him.

“What’s up with you?” Tadashi asks, grinning against his mouth.

“Just missed you.”

Kei steps back. The loss of warmth is jarring. He curls his fingers around Tadashi’s wrist and tugs him from the counter, pulling him through the kitchen. The warmth is back in an instant as Kei kisses him on the living room couch. Kei's tongue is soft and wet as it caresses his. Tadashi’s heart pounds in his chest. He presses his hands to Kei’s to hear his too, thumping against his palms. Kei grabs his waist with steady, eager hands. He pulls him into his lap.

“Shit,” Tadashi groans.

Kei is prominent under him, hot and hard against him, and Tadashi can’t sit still. He bounces on top of him. A slight, easy, rhythmic shift and Kei shivers, his mouth going slack. Tadashi pulls his bottom lip into his mouth. He rolls his hips, grinding down on Kei. Kei’s fingers tremble on the back of his neck.

Firmly, resolutely, Kei tilts his head into their kiss. He slides his tongue along Tadashi’s, his lips soft and slick, cherry red from use. Tadashi rolls his hips as he kisses back. It feels so _good_ , the firmness of Kei beneath him while his mouth’s so soft and pliable, his tongue like velvet, his hands cradling Tadashi’s head to keep him close. Tadashi pulls him closer with his hands at the backs of Kei’s shoulders. He leans fully into his flushed chest. The slide of bare skin rubs him just the right way, and Tadashi shifts pointedly on Kei’s lap once more, so slow it almost _hurts._ Kei twitches against him. He drags his hands over his shoulders, licking into his mouth. His nails dig possessive half-moons into Tadashi’s back. Tadashi breathes a sharp, needy moan. His fingers wind in Kei’s soft hair.

Tadashi should go to the gym more often.


	17. victory kiss

A quiet, easy cadence wades through the sleepy bus atmosphere. Orange afternoon sunlight stretches placidly over lax faces. The tires hum as they spin on the cement, their white noise like the stir of the fan Tsukishima keeps at his bedside. His eyelids are heavy. He blinks to keep them open. If he sleeps now, he won’t tonight.

He leans his forehead on the back of the seat in front of him. He stares down at his hands. His bandaged fingers tremble as he splays them. Tsukishima watches where he knows his cut hides beneath layers of gauze. Curling his fingers into his palm, he bites his lip. It’s been hours; the aspirin has worn off.

“Sore again?”

Tsukishima turns. Yamaguchi gazes at him, his face soft, fresh from sleep.

“I’ve got aspirin.”

Yamaguchi's voice is hushed and raspy, sore from the yelling he’d done during their match. Tsukishima turns back to his hands. Without his glasses, a blurred corona surrounds each digit. Warm light from the window falls over his skin. It deepens the lines in his palms. He flexes his good hand so light falls into the cracks.

“You should drink some tea when you get home.”

“Do I sound that bad?”

Tsukishima relaxes his hand and flexes it again, light overtaking shadows.

“We could get tea together,” Yamaguchi suggests. “You did some yelling, too, Tsukki.”

“Yeah.”

He leans his head on the back of the seat like Kei. His hair falls over his eyes. He tucks it behind his ear and when his hand falls, it rests on the seat between them. The terrain switches under the bus tires, humming louder now. They crackle on grit and gravel but no one bats an eye, breathing deeply in their sleep, coaxed by relief and exhaustion.

“You were so awesome today.”

Tsukishima turns. An easy grin breaks over Yamaguchi’s lips. 

“We won. We really won.”

Tsukishima’s fingers ache. He ignores them. His eyes stick fast to Yamaguchi’s smile, so soft and true, so easy for him. Sunlight sneaks into his eyes, lighting them up. Leftover adrenaline turns in Tsukishima’s stomach. His ears don’t ring anymore from the crowd. But he remembers the buzzing exactly.

Yamaguchi meets him in the middle. They kiss, silent and sweet, heads still resting on the bus seat. Tsukishima closes his eyes. He opens them when they come apart, and Yamaguchi grins again, a sunset blush high in his cheeks. His hand inches over on the bus seat. He presses his fingers to the side of Tsukishima’s leg and a moment later, he brings his arm back to his side.

“Want to make tea at my house?” Tsukishima whispers.

The bus tires hum on gray pavement. Yamaguchi’s grin widens and, afternoon light catching his white teeth, he nods.


	18. jealous kiss

Tadashi watches as beer dribbles messily over Tanaka’s chin and leaches into the collar of his t-shirt. He still juts his fist into the air with the music from the shitty handheld stereo someone brought, way more treble than bass, and the tinny beat ricochets off every corner of the apartment. The neighbors must be _pissed._

“Okay!” Tanaka calls, waving around his empty bottle. “You know what _this_ means!”

“Spin the bottle!” yelps Nishinoya.

“Tanaka-san, we’re all guys. There are, like, four girls.”

Tanaka looks at Tadashi. It takes a moment for the information to sink in and when it does, he nods vigorously.

“Right, right. If we get a guy, we just spin again,” he insists.

Tsukishima glares. “That seems egregiously unfair for the girls.”

“What’s wrong, Tsukishima? Too uptight to kiss a guy, huh?”

Tadashi looks between them, waiting. Tsukishima bristles under the attention and stalks off. Tadashi watches him go. The green and purple party lights flash in his hair and bounce off his jacket as he weaves coolly through the bumping crowd. It takes Tadashi a moment to come back to earth.

“Yamaguchi, here,” someone tells him, pushing another beer into his hand.

The living room bustles. The music isn’t good—and if Tadashi thinks so, he can’t imagine what Tsukishima has to say about it—but people dance anyway, rocking and swaying in good spirits. Some chat wildly, animatedly, and some keep it mellow, ducked in toward one another to hear. The lights flash and pop. Tadashi scans the crowd for Tsukishima, wondering how he’d lost him. His eyes find him easily; he is inches taller than anyone else. Tadashi could swoon.

Tsukishima is tall even as he leans against the staircase, nodding at the conversation he finds himself in. Tadashi drinks his beer and watches the girls talk with him. Tsukishima holds a bottle in his hand, one Sugawara had given him when they arrived with the instruction to take a load off. Tadashi tells by the way he holds it that it’s still full. He grins around the neck of his own bottle and pulls back when he finds it empty. The lights are pretty now; not so severe. He watches them flash over Tsukishima’s pale skin across the room.

His grin falters. Hand cupped over her mouth, one of the girls rises on her tiptoes. She leans into Tsukishima and curls her other hand around his arm. A couple of guys wander past, blocking his view, and Tadashi pushes down with both hands on the roiling spite rising in his stomach. At his side, Tanaka and Nishinoya drown out the tinny music.

“Look at that, Ryuu!”

“Man, I don’t get it. What does Tsukishima have that I don’t?”

Nishinoya cackles, watching on as the girls crowd Tsukishima closer.

“Do you want a list or something?”

“It isn’t fair. You’d think the glasses would, like, deter them. What d’you think, Yamaguchi?”

Tadashi’s tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth. He swaps his weight between his feet and the jealousy in his stomach sloshes around, saturated with beer. He peers through the crowd but he still can’t see Tsukishima.

He clears his dry throat. “Um, I—Tanaka-san, where’s your bathroom?”

“Huh? Oh, see that hallway by the stairs? Right down there.”

Tadashi’s stare sticks to the staircase where Tsukishima was as he slips his way through the chaos of the living room. Dancing bodies push back against him, some of them almost _disturbingly_ sweaty. Tadashi minimizes himself and shuffles quickly through the outskirts of the crowd, stopping short. Tsukishima isn’t there. The girls have dispersed, too.

He whirls around but the crowd is too dense and mobile to make anything out. Tadashi bites his lip and heads down the hallway. He presses his ear to the bathroom door to make sure he won’t interrupt anything before he pushes it open. The handle is damp. Tadashi grimaces and wipes his hand on his jeans, swinging the door shut behind him. He looks up again.

Tsukishima washes his hands at the sink. He glances around for a towel before frowning and shaking the water from his hands, flinging droplets onto the rim of the porcelain sink. He looks at Tadashi and raises an eyebrow.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Tadashi says back.

Tsukishima turns the knob of the sink and the water stops. He turns.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing. I just—uh. Those girls.”

“What about them?”

He shakes the water from his hands once more before settling to pat them on his jeans. He and Tadashi stare at each other. Jealously still licks at the inside of him, remembering how close they had gotten to Tsukishima, wondering how many or how little words it would take to pry him from Tadashi forever. Tadashi turns and flicks the lock on the door behind him.

He walks forward and backs Tsukishima into the bathroom wall. He lays his hands flat on the wall above Tsukishima’s shoulders, caging him in. Wide-eyed, Tsukishima stares. Tadashi glares back at him.

“I know you don’t like to touch or kiss in public because it isn’t anyone’s business, I get that, but sometimes I think you just need to _grow up_ and hold my damn hand.”

Tsukishima blinks. “How many beers did you have?”

Tadashi leans up and kisses him firmly. He parts his mouth against Tsukishima’s to part his, too. Tsukishima pulls in a breath through his nose and kisses back, following Tadashi’s pace. His glasses creak as Tadashi leans into him. Tadashi slides his tongue along Tsukishima’s and tilts his head, kissing him deeper, pulling back only to nip possessively at his bottom lip. Tsukishima’s long arms circle his neck. Tadashi hums. He slips his thigh between Tsukishima’s legs and presses against him, swallowing his gasp and returning it with a deep, slow kiss, his mouth hot and hungry, lips wet and parted.

They pant when Tadashi finally pulls back. Tsukishima’s arms fall back to his sides.

“Okay,” he says, his voice raspy. He gives a slight nod.

“Okay what?” pants Tadashi.

“Give me your damn hand, and I will hold it.”

Tadashi grins. “Really?”

“On one condition,” Tsukishima replies, and Tadashi nods. “Although it looks nice on you, stop being jealous. It isn’t good for you. And it’s irrational. I don’t care about them. You are the only one. Okay?”

Tadashi’s throat goes dry again, and he can’t get the words out, so he just nods again. Tsukishima nods back. They jump when an eager fist pounds on the bathroom door. Turning to leave, Tsukishima holds out his hand. Tadashi slips his into it. Warm and steady, their fingers interlock.


	19. indirect kiss

“I can do this on my own.”

“No, nope,” Yamaguchi argues, fluffing the pillow behind him. “I think you need my help, Tsukki.”

“I’m perfectly lucid.”

Tsukishima huffs and takes the pencil Yamaguchi hands him anyway. Paper flutters as he sorts the stack of assignments scattered on his bed. His cloth mask covers his mouth and his deep, inevitable frown but Tsukishima still coughs into his elbow out of habit.

“Don’t forget about your tea,” Yamaguchi reminds him.

“Yamaguchi, go home.”

“What did you get for number six?”

“You’ll get sick.”

“My graph goes up. But I don’t know if that’s right.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes. He picks up his paper.

“The graph doesn’t go up. The _line_ on the graph goes up.”

Yamaguchi taps his pencil against his chin. “So I got it right, Tsukki?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.” He fluffs the moat of blankets that surrounds Tsukishima, keeping the warmth in. He scuttles a bit closer to him on the bed to show off his graph. “He wants us to mark the directrix with a dashed line, and clearly label the focus. He said he’ll take points off if we don’t.”

Tsukishima nods. He points the tip of his pencil to the focus of Yamaguchi’s graph.

“And that?” he asks.

“The focus.”

“You marked it with a star.”

“Oh. Yeah, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima hums. His eyes grin for him. His shoulder is hot as it presses to Yamaguchi’s. The humidifier by Tsukishima’s desk spritzes a dense, damp mist and the particles dance in the warm air before fading to nothing.

“You’re burning up, you know.”

“I’m sick,” groans Tsukishima. “I probably have a fever.”

Yamaguchi gazes sternly at him. “It’s been a while. You should see a doctor.”

“Yamaguchi, it’s been three days.”

He blinks. He shuffles through the assignments on the bed, searching for the dates in the top corner, scrawled in his frantic handwriting. Chin in his hand, Tsukishima watches lazily. He turns away to cough into his elbow again. Yamaguchi lets the papers fall back on the bed.

“It feels like way longer, Tsukki,” he sighs, leaning against the headboard.

Tsukishima follows him back. He’s hot against his shoulder again, his cheeks flushed fever red.

“Thanks for bringing my assignments.”

“It’s worth getting sick, I think,” says Yamaguchi.

“My homework?”

He shakes his head. “To see you.”

Tsukishima stares at him. Yamaguchi’s head spins a bit, and for a moment he believes he’s caught Tsukishima’s cold, too, just like that—until Tsukishima’s eyes glint and he realizes he grins beneath his mask, fond and genuine. A moment later, Tsukishima looks away. He watches his hands that wring in his lap.

“I have not missed two consecutive days of school in fifteen years. This was inevitable.”

Yamaguchi snorts into the back of his hand.

Tsukishima squints at him. “What?”

“You sound like Spock.”

“Because I used the word _inevitable_?”

“No, just, like…everything.”

“Well.” Tsukishima leans forward. He sets his pencil on his stack of missed assignments and leans back again, settling heavily against Yamaguchi’s side. In the corner, the humidifier spritzes again. Tsukishima lets his head rest on Yamaguchi’s shoulder. “I would kiss you. But I’m sick, and that would be _highly illogical_.”

Yamaguchi chirps a laugh. His heart swells in his chest.

He leans down and kisses Tsukishima on the mouth. The cloth of his mask rustles under his lips. He feels the warmth of Tsukishima’s breath, his lips, his flushed face so close to his. He feels his muted grin. Yamaguchi lifts his head, watching the shine of Tsukishima’s eyes. Tsukishima nestles further into his side.

“You’ll certainly get sick now,” he murmurs.

He rests his head on Yamaguchi’s shoulder. Yamaguchi nuzzles his nose into his blond hair.

“Worth it, Tsukki.”


	20. forehead kiss

It’s midnight before Yamaguchi gets home. The porch light bends around the doorframe and glows on the hardwood floor of the front hall. He pulls the door shut behind him and the light is cast out again, the lock clicking into place. The soft sound whispers through the still living room.

Kei fell asleep on the couch hours ago. He hears Yamaguchi’s slight footsteps as he tries to walk quietly, the jostle of the zipper on his duffel bag, the swish of his clothing. He feels Yamaguchi’s hand in his hair, so tender as he brushes it from his forehead. His tired presence murmurs. Kei could fall back asleep listening to it. He does for a moment, he thinks, until he hears footsteps mumble in the hall. Yamaguchi drags his feet, overworked again. Kei sits up. He collects the knitted throw blanket in his arms.

The light of the hallway sneaks quietly into the bedroom. Yamaguchi left the door ajar. He didn’t change; he peeled off his shirt and crawled onto the bed. He didn’t get under the covers. His exhaustion is palpable. Kei leans drowsily against the doorframe. With his foot, he nudges Yamaguchi’s duffel bag safely under the desk. The zipper jingles softly. Kei pushes himself off the doorframe and goes to the bed, the carpet scratchy under his socks. 

He drapes the throw blanket over Yamaguchi. Gently, he tucks the fabric underneath him. Kei crawls onto the bed with him, lying at his side. The old mattress springs greet him with a creak. Yamaguchi is fast asleep. His breathing has already evened out, soft and steady. His skin still radiates warmth from exertion. Between the shadows that peak over his face, Kei sees a faint flush on his cheeks. He brushes Yamaguchi’s hair from his face with slow fingers.

He leans up and places a soft kiss on his forehead. His skin is warm under his lips. Slightly, Yamaguchi’s breathing fluctuates. Kei rests his head on the pillow next to him. The hall light glows dully into the still, silent room and Kei closes his eyes. Yamaguchi breathes him a lullaby. 


	21. end-of-the-world kiss

The tourniquet soaks through the minute Kei applies it, tugging it tight around his calf with sore, grubby hands. The sky above explodes. It’s only another ten yards to the barricade. He tilts his foot to make sure he can still feel it, and he can, so he nods resolutely at the others and they crawl on.

They shove crumbled stone and rubble to the side to crouch together. Shouyou and Tobio squat in one clearing. Kei and Tadashi occupy the other, crouching low to the ground because the barricade is shorter there—chunks of stone blown off by god knows what before they tumbled down the cliffside and bashed into the fortress’s iron wall. The stone didn’t make a dent. But Kei knows they can. With a glance, he checks on the others. The butt of the bazooka scrapes on the ground when he turns to Tadashi.

“Rest first,” he dictates, patting the strap across his chest. “Then we get closer.”

His eyes squeeze shut as the lefthand mountain range rumbles like an angry dog and a sinkhole opens beneath it. Rock and dirt and fossils are sucked wholly into the earth. The ground cracks and screams and Kei looks to his side to watch Tobio wrap a comforting arm around Shouyou’s middle.

“I’m fine, Kageyama,” he insists over the distant uproar, but Tobio doesn’t let him go. Shouyou turns to Kei, scrubbing a hand through his thick shock of gunmetal hair, dyed by falling ash. “How long, do you think? Until it starts?”

“A week. Could be longer. Yamaguchi?”

The sinkhole groans. When he says nothing, Kei turns to Tadashi.

“Yamaguchi?” he repeats himself, but Tadashi is glaring at his leg.

“Does it hurt?” Tadashi asks. He presses his fingers to the blood-soaked tourniquet. “It looks awful.”

“It didn’t hurt until you mentioned it. Thanks.”

Tadashi rolls his eyes. His grin is charming, self-deprecating. A yellow thread pierces the overcast sky and the sudden, searing light looks orange on his tan, soot-dusted skin. Kei’s cut warps when he sits up. He winces.

“It’ll be fine,” he manages.

“Sure it will. Because everything always turns out fine for us.”

The air around the fortress crackles. By the time the pulse reaches them, it’s just a static shock.

“Hey,” chirps Tadashi. “That one wasn’t bad.”

“My hair didn’t even stand up,” Shouyou enthuses.

A sheet of blue blooms in the sky but it’s quickly overtaken by a nasty, sickly green, pouring into the atmosphere and pulling the contents of Kei’s stomach into his throat. Kei steels himself. He pulls the launcher from his back and sets it between him and Tadashi. His back pops when he stretches, his body finally liberated from the weight its carried. He draws out a sigh.

“Better?” asks Tadashi.

“Loads. I can’t carry it much longer.”

“I’ll carry it,” calls Shouyou.

“It would drag across the ground if you carried it.”

Tobio coughs a laugh, his smile wicked. “It would.”

“I’d still carry it better than you,” Shouyou snaps.

“No you wouldn’t. I’ll carry it next time and then we’ll see.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

The atmosphere reeks of gasoline. The two of them begin to cough, and Kei does too the instant he breathes in. They hack until their shoulders shake. Their lungs burn as tiny flames lick up their throats. Tadashi sets a gentle hand on Kei’s back. He wisely holds the other over his mouth and nose. He drops it when the others can breathe again, the spell having passed.

Tadashi’s hand rubs his back. Kei catches his breath and grants him a grateful nod.

“Wasn’t paying attention,” he rumbles, glancing upward. Yellow overtakes the sky once again. Kei’s stare dips to the ground between Tadashi’s knees. He rubs his tongue over the roof of his mouth. He grimaces. Like he’d eaten a cigar. Tadashi digs the canteen from his pack and watches Kei’s throat as he swallows. “Everyone okay? Are we ready?”

“Yeah, yeah,” grunts Tobio, his voice like gravel.

“Ready,” says Shouyou.

“The incline is steeper than usual,” Tadashi reports. “Watch your step as we go down.” He watches Kei as he talks, his eyes very alive. “Ready?”

Kei nods. “Yeah. Let’s—”

Tadashi crashes into him and he’s thrown back on the ground, Tadashi’s hands clutching his face. He mashes their mouths together. Tadashi parts his mouth when Kei tongues at his lips out of habit, and it’s the warmest, wettest thing Kei can remember as toxic clouds combust in the sickly sky. His wound aches and stings but Kei doesn’t relent. He kisses Tadashi until he can’t breathe. Adrenaline charges through him, through them both, zapping at every point of contact.

They pull back with twin gasps. Tadashi peers over Kei’s shoulder at Shouyou and Tobio. Their stares are empathetic, resolute. Tadashi wipes his forearm across his mouth and stands. The rest of them follow. Kei is light on his feet as he steadies himself. He slings the launcher over his shoulder again, the earth shattering around them.

“Let’s go.”


	22. morning kiss

Tadashi’s hair rustles against the pillowcase as they kiss, his own pillow abandoned on the side of Kei’s bed he’s deemed his own, but his senses haven’t woken up quite enough to make sense of the noise. He curls his arm over Kei’s side and pulls him closer. His sense of touch flares up just like that, Kei’s stomach bare against his, warm from sleep and the sheets. In turn, Kei cups his face in his hand.

They gaze at each other when Tadashi pulls from him to breathe, and Kei’s eyes are tired and fond. Tadashi grins. He leans in again and parts his mouth to kiss Kei lazily, their tongues brushing, playing. Kei strokes light fingers over his cheek. They slide down and over his chest, over his stomach. Tadashi draws his tongue unhurriedly over Kei’s bottom lip. He nips it when Kei smooths his palm over where his dick pushes at the fabric of his boxers. Kei grins against his mouth. He sweeps his hand back up his body to rest on Tadashi’s face again, petting his cheek. Tadashi slides his tongue along Kei’s. Spit pools at the corner of his mouth.

The morning light tries to pry its way between the blinds, but they keep them shut because they don’t want to wake up, not yet, not when the bed is warm like their mouths, like their bodies, like the sun they shut out to make the morning last that much longer. The sheets got twirled around his legs, and how, Tadashi doesn’t know. He shimmies out of them. His mouth doesn’t leave Kei’s even as he climbs on top of him. He leans back so Kei has to sit up to keep their kiss, only for a moment before Tadashi lowers himself and sits fully on his lap. He slips a sigh between Kei’s lips. Kei is hard beneath him, straining in his boxers like Tadashi. He steals short, easy kisses between panting breaths. His hands grip Tadashi’s waist. He tugs at him, lifting him off.

“School,” he mumbles against his mouth.

“Sunday,” Tadashi mumbles back, and grinds down on him.

Kei’s fingers clutch his hips. He directs him down again, kissing the sides of his mouth before parting his lips again, inviting Tadashi in. Their lips are slick. They kiss messily, lazily, Tadashi’s fingers tracing Kei’s working jaw. Kei’s arms circle his middle. He coaxes Tadashi down to lie on top of him. Kei curls his fingers into his hair and slows his pace even further, lingering more on Tadashi’s mouth before his lips part again, savoring the steady morning rhythm they’ve perfected. Their bodies lean, their heads tilt. Their lips are swollen, pouty. The comforter swishes over their skin. Kei murmurs against him.

“You had coffee,” he accuses. His voice is low, gruff. “Unfair.”

Tadashi kisses him again, grinning. He nips Kei’s lip again before he pulls back.

“I can bring you some.”

“I can get it myself. You come, too.”

Kei stares up at him. His lids fall lazily over his eyes. He leans up to place a soft kiss on Tadashi’s cupid bow. He ducks and kisses his mouth, too, his lips warm and red. The mattress squeaks as Tadashi crawls off him. Kei kisses him once, twice, three more times as the morning sun taps at the bedroom window. He rolls out of bed, Tadashi right behind him.


	23. birthday kiss

_I love you!_

Tsukishima lifts the lime green post-it note from Yamaguchi’s pillow. He grabs his glasses from the nightstand and reads it again.

“Too early for proclamations of love,” he mumbles, but Yamaguchi isn’t in the room to protest.

Tsukishima puts the note on his own pillow. He runs his fingertip along the top edge to make sure it adheres. Morning sunlight floods the room when he tilts open the window blinds, the kind that puts Yamaguchi in a good mood, lighting up the hardwood and glinting off the metal-framed furniture.

_I really love you!_

Tsukishima peels the second post-it from the bedroom door, rethinks it, and sticks the note right back in the same place. He drags his finger over the characters. He feels the slight impressions in the paper, ink left in their wake. He pushes his glasses into his hair and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. 

The hallway is bright, too, sunlight streaming in through the front window. The kitchen bustles.

_I love you the_ _most_ _!_

Tsukishima takes the note with him this time. He peels it carefully from the bathroom door as he passes and sticks it to the center of his chest. The apartment is twice as big with all the blinds open, light pushing out the cream-colored walls, splashing into every shadowed corner. The legs of a chair squeak on the kitchen floor. The full, robust smell of coffee spills down the hall. 

_H-A-P-P-Y B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y!_

More than a dozen post-its, lime green and strung together, hang in the archway to the kitchen in a makeshift banner. Tsukishima has to duck under it. Natural light bounces off the countertops and Yamaguchi grins up at him from the kitchen table, two mugs of coffee steaming in front of him. He scoots one across the table.

He stands up when Tsukishima sits, his footsteps whispering on the tile. He abandons his chair to sit on Tsukishima’s lap. He presses a kiss to his cheek and rests their foreheads together. Tsukishima puts his hands on his waist. He thumbs at the loose fabric of Yamaguchi’s shirt.

“How long have you been up?” he asks.

“Not too long.”

Yamaguchi grins and nudges his nose to Tsukishima’s.

“Was this low-key enough for you?” he murmurs, flicking the note Tsukishima stuck to his chest.

Tsukishima shrugs. “The banner is a bit much.”

Yamaguchi takes Tsukishima’s face in his soft hands and kisses his smile. He strokes his cheeks with his thumbs. Tsukishima slides his hand up Yamaguchi’s back, under his shirt, scratching lightly at warm, taut skin. Yamaguchi pulls back to pepper kisses all over his face—his cheeks, his chin, his forehead, the tip of Tsukishima’s nose. He peels the note from his shirt. He sticks it to Tsukishima’s forehead before he kisses his grin again, short and sweet. The note crinkles when he rests their foreheads together.

“Happy birthday, Tsukki.”


	24. palm kiss

“That’s your life line.”

“And what’s it say, Tsukki?”

“Hang on.” 

Tsukishima traces the line with his fingertip, arcing up toward Yamaguchi’s fingers and over the ball of his thumb. Yamaguchi watches patiently. Tsukishima turns to the computer screen again. His eyes flick across the screen as he reads.

“Okay,” he decides. “Your line is long and mostly unbroken.”

“So what does it mean?” Yamaguchi asks him.

“That you’re dependable.”

He perks up. “Okay,” he chirps. “What’s next?”

“Your head line.”

“Yours was straight, wasn’t it, Kei?”

“Yeah. Practical and logical. Boring. But look at yours.” Tsukishima drags his fingertip along the crease in Yamaguchi’s palm. “Yours is curved.” He glances at his laptop again. “A curved line indicates creativity,” he reads, “and spontaneity. That’s pretty cool.”

“You’re pretty into this, huh?”

He squints at Yamaguchi. “Shut up.”

“What? It’s cute.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes, drawing slow, random patters over Yamaguchi’s palm. 

“It’s not like I believe in it,” he says.

“That’s what you said about Mothman, and now you sleep with your closet light on.”

“Whatever.”

“What’s next?”

Tsukishima scrolls down the web page.

“Sun line. If it’s deep, it means you’ll find easy success.” He matches the crease on Yamaguchi’s palm to one in the picture and traces it with his finger, soft and steady. Tsukishima hums. Slowly, he follows the line again. “Yours is shallow.”

“Crap.”

“Told you I don’t believe in this stuff.”

Yamaguchi breathes a laugh and they grin at one another. Tsukishima finds the next line.

“Heart line,” he announces. “It relates to your happiness and romantic life.”

“Okay.” Yamaguchi rests his chin in his hand. “Give it a read, Tsukki.”

“If it’s straight and long, it indicates a general contentment in your romantic life. An inconsistent line indicates heartbreak or trauma. A curve indicates passion.” Tsukishima follows Yamaguchi’s heart line with an unhurried fingertip. The crease is deep. He curls his thumb over the side of Yamaguchi’s hand for a better grip. “Huh,” says Tsukishima. “That’s weird.”

Yamaguchi leans forward. “What is?”

“It says your romantic life is superb. It says that your boyfriend loves you very much and that you should probably never, ever break up with him,” Tsukishima deadpans. He traces the line once more, slowly. “It says that you should probably, eventually just marry him.”

“It says all that?” Yamaguchi asks, beaming.

“Yes. I’m a certified palm reader.”

“You’re a certified _dork_ ,” he insists. “But me and my palms love you, too.”

Tsukishima grins. He lifts Yamaguchi’s hand to his mouth and places a long kiss in the center of his palm. Yamaguchi sweeps his free hand through Tsukishima’s hair and flushes pink, his heart line thrumming under Tsukishima’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who remembers the heartlines thing in stay, stay, stay? gooood times.
> 
> <3


	25. mistletoe kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas you guys, and happy holidays. <3

“Come on! Everyone else did it!”

Tsukishima leans against the doorframe and inspects his fingernails.

“I don’t care what they did.”

“Stop badgering him,” Tadashi insists, but he stays in the doorway anyway.

“Come on, Yamaguchi,” whines Hinata, clinging to Kageyama’s arm on the couch. A trail of sprinkles runs down his reindeer sweater. “We did it! Michimiya and Sawamura did it! And I’m pretty sure Bokuto dragged Akaashi over there, like, thirty seconds after they got here.”

Hearing his name, Bokuto hollers merrily from the kitchen. Tadashi teeters on his feet.

“Tsukki doesn’t want to.”

“And you do, Yamaguchi?” Tsukishima counters.

“He knew it was there, right, Tsukishima, you totally knew! And you walked under it together anyway!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tanaka eggs Hinata on, “that’s right. You know, if I had someone to kiss, I’d totally do it. Totally. It’s in the holiday spirit.” He hiccups. Too much eggnog. “I’d totally, _totally_ do it, you know?”

“Is that supposed to convince me?” Tsukishima wonders.

Tanaka hiccups again. “Yes?”

Tadashi glances up at the mistletoe, a tiny bundle of spiky leaves and wine-colored berries hung from the arch of the doorway. Tsukishima glances, too. On the couch, Kageyama turns to Hinata and some of the sprinkles on his sweater trickle to the carpet.

“Are you sure they’re really together?” blurts Kageyama.

“Is that your whisper?” Tsukishima chides, crossing his arms. “Because I don’t think _Canada_ heard you.”

“If you’re really not gonna do it, sit down already.”

Tsukishima glares. Kageyama glares back.

Tadashi tugs on Tsukishima’s sleeve. “Come on, Tsukki. Let’s sit.”

“No.”

Tsukishima pulls him in with a hand on the nape of his neck and kisses him. Tadashi’s arms lock around him in an instant to keep him there. Tsukishima’s mouth is sweet from the candy cane he’d eaten, warm from the cocoa he’d drank earlier on. His mittened hands cup his face. Soft, knitted wool cradles the pink flush on Tadashi’s cheeks.

When his heart calms down, Tadashi hears the uproar: the claps and cheers of his former teammates, his friends, the eggnog-induced excitement of the festive room, whistles from the others beckoned from the kitchen. Hinata’s up off the couch, hopping in place. Tadashi tugs playfully at Tsukishima’s scarf.

When he grins against his lips, Tsukishima grins back.


	26. goodnight kiss

Summer days stretch endlessly like silly putty between tiny, eager hands. A distant slice of sun melts into the earth, orange and glowy. The glare twinkles off the left lens of Tsukishima’s glasses. He lifts his gaze from the porch to somewhere behind Yamaguchi’s shoulder. His cheeks smolder. Yamaguchi’s heart beats a little faster.

“Better luck next time,” Tsukishima’s saying, trying to stifle the grin that pries at his lips.

“I just wasn’t my best _player_ , Tsukki.”

He fails miserably, and it’s contagious. Yamaguchi can’t bite back his grin.

“Oh,” says Tsukishima. He pulls his headphones from his bag and zips it back up, the soft metal sound joining the cacophony of cicadas. They chirp in the bushes that line Yamaguchi’s house. Tsukishima hangs his headphones comfortably around his neck. He smirks. “Are you saying you let me win?”

Yamaguchi glances up from Tsukishima’s mouth. “Yeah. No.”

“Which is it?”

“Whichever you think is cooler, Tsukki. But just know you won’t beat me again.”

Tsukishima’s smirk softens into another grin. The sunset’s glare flees from his lenses as he looks to Yamaguchi’s feet only to glance up at him through his eyelashes, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, though Yamaguchi can’t remember how they got there. A warm breeze tugs at his t-shirt. 

“Yeah?” challenges Tsukishima, and Yamaguchi nods. “Then it’s a date.”

“You’re on, Tsukki.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Yamaguchi reiterates. His heart pounds in his throat.

Rubber soles scrape the concrete as Tsukishima shuffles an inch closer, an inch back. The last slice of sun watches them lazily.

“I should go,” he tells Yamaguchi.

“Okay.”

“Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Yamaguchi’s gaze flickers to meet his. “See you tomorrow, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima’s hand leaves his pocket. It’s warm as it presses to Yamaguchi’s face. His palm is damp. Yamaguchi pulls in a breath and then Tsukishima’s kissing him, his mouth off-center but so soft, and he waits a moment before he rights himself to kiss Yamaguchi properly. Yamaguchi takes his burning face in his hands.

His arms fall slowly back to his sides when they come apart. His fingers shake.

“Goodnight,” Tsukishima tells him again, just a whisper over the uproar of Yamaguchi’s heart.

The deep purple evening pushes the sun underground. Rubber soles scrape concrete and at the end of Yamaguchi’s driveway, Tsukishima looks back. He mirrors Yamaguchi’s grin, pulled tight by the summer breeze. His hands are back in his pockets. His face still burns.


	27. reunion kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why are front porches one of my favorite settings?

Yamaguchi’s plane lands at ass o’clock in the morning, but Kei’s determined to be at his house the minute the cab drops him back home. Kei set four alarms and slept through three. Winter wind squeezes the walls of his bedroom inward, pressing him into his sheets. But Kei thinks of Yamaguchi and defies it. He’s halfway to Yamaguchi’s before he realizes his boots are on the wrong feet and only rights them when he sits on Yamaguchi’s front porch, his hood pulled low over his forehead, its drawstrings pulled tight. 

A little fire kindles in Kei’s chest at the sight of headlights. They glide brightly down the street. Kei stands as they crawl to a halt and turn into the driveway, beaming off the garage door. They pile out of the car—Yamaguchi’s parents first and then Yamaguchi, and it’s not a moment before he’s across the yard and yelling his name, throwing himself into Kei. A straw sunhat sits on his head, his arms bare in a t-shirt. Kei wants to scold him. Instead, he just hugs back, offering himself as a jacket.

“You can take the hat off,” Kei mumbles into his shoulder. “Vacation’s over.”

Yamaguchi pulls back and beams at him. Between the porch light and the taxicab headlights on the front of the house, Kei sees the tan he’s acquired, his cheeks tawny and healthy, his arms bronze and freckled. Kei slips his hands down his shoulders. He curls his fingers around his wrists. Yamaguchi’s skin is warm despite the chill like it’s retained every degree of easy, summery heat from the past month. Kei leans into him again. Yamaguchi smiles.

“Tsukki, I missed you so freaking much.”

“So did—”

He rises up and kisses Kei ardently, his mouth so familiar, so soft and warm like his summer skin. He pulls his hat off his head and tilts it to hide their kiss so his parents won’t see, but they turn politely away regardless, shuffling the luggage around to account for them all. Kei grazes his tongue over Yamaguchi’s bottom lip before he pulls away. Yamaguchi’s eyes sparkle. Light recedes from the house as the cab backs out of the driveway.

Kei interlaces their fingers—his stiff and cold, Yamaguchi’s impossibly warm.


	28. crying kiss

The stench of smoke can’t reach Kei where he waits in the rose bushes.

Sickly sweet, the flowers hide him like they always do; his gorgeous, dangerous companions. He pulls a rose from the bush and lets its thorns sink into his fingers. Here, the light of the lanterns is diluted. His blood is just black. The warning bell booms on, its uproar raging through the city. The guards search for him but they won’t find him here—precisely the reason he had the maze planted—and the roses weren’t his idea, not really, though no one ever asked in the first place.

Tadashi likes roses.

Kei’s knees sink into the soil. He sits back on his heels and lays the rose he plucked on the dirt in front of him, horizontal like a sword. He bows his head. He lifts off his circlet when it threatens to slip. Neatly, he rests it atop the rose so the ruby petals lie exactly in its center. He bows his head again. He prays.

Someone listens. In the distance, thorns and branches snag rushing fabric. Leaning forward with his pricked fingers pressed to the dirt, Kei watches the darkness.

Tadashi bursts from the shadows. His eyes are bright when he sees Kei, even in the absence of lanterns. Kei’s heart starts to beat again, his breath returning, heaving from his throat. Tadashi lets out a dry, wracked sob. His arms are a vice around Kei’s middle. Kei slips his hand into his soft hair. His eyes squeeze tightly shut. Sparks dance across the backs of his eyelids.

“I wasn’t sure you would come.”

Tadashi exhales harshly into his shoulder. His hands bunch into the back of Kei’s cloak. The wind swings through the rose bushes, bringing with it that same sickly sweet scent, laced with panic. A plume of smoke rises in the night sky. The warning bell tolls again. It rattles through Tadashi; his shoulders shake in Kei’s grip.

“I’m not leaving you,” Kei promises softly, pushing his forehead against Tadashi’s until he pushes back. He cups his jaw in his hands. He drags his lips down the bridge of Tadashi’s nose. He ghosts a warm sigh over his cheek. Tadashi huffs a shaky breath.

“I know,” he whispers weakly. Hot tears roll over Kei’s fingers.

In the city outskirts, metal clangs against metal. Smoke rises. The bell does not stop. Tadashi warbles his name.

Kei swipes his thumb over his wet cheek and brings their mouths together _hard_. His heart leaps into his throat as Tadashi kisses him back, deep and desperate. Tears drip from his chin. They trail jaggedly over his face as they kiss and Kei tastes their salt, feels their warmth on his lips. He draws back. Tadashi brings him back to his mouth with a hand on the nape of Kei’s neck, kissing him quickly. Tadashi smells like the roses he traipsed through to get to him.

He smells like the roses Kei planted all for him.


	29. stargazing kiss

“If we see a shooting star,” Yamaguchi asks, “what will you wish for?”

Tsukishima hums. He watches the sky, trying to fit an entire night of stargazing into an hour. Grass pricks his back through his shirt.

“One million dollars,” he answers.

Considering this, Yamaguchi pulls idly at the drawstrings of his sweatshirt.

“What will you do with all that money, Tsukki?”

“Pay off student loans.”

He barks a laugh. “You don’t even have those yet.”

Tsukishima kicks out his foot when he feels a bug crawl over his ankle. He sighs.

“I got the email this morning.”

“Oh god,” Yamaguchi groans.

“Yeah.”

“Not a million dollars, though.”

“I’ll spend the rest on you,” says Tsukishima. He stares from star to star, connecting invisible lines. “You aren’t cheap, you know.”

Yamaguchi guffaws. He squeezes Tsukishima’s hand, their fingers interlaced.

“Tsukki, that is such a lie,” he laughs. “You only ever buy me food.”

“It’s all I can afford. And it’s all you ever want.”

“That’s true.”

A cluster of clouds hang in the eastern sky; the descending curtain on a stage of stars. Tsukishima points out a particularly bright glimmer. Yamaguchi thinks it’s a planet.

He muses, “You know how you can adopt highways and stuff? I wonder if you can do that with stars.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“Do you think there’s a limit?”

Tsukishima turns to stare at him. Dry grass pokes his cheek.

“Exactly how many do you plan to adopt?”

“I don’t know,” says Yamaguchi, shrugging. “One for me. One for you. One for Pockets.”

“You want to get one for the cat?”

“Yeah. Sure, Tsukki. I mean, so long as he doesn’t get all high and mighty about it.”

Tsukishima huffs a laugh and Yamaguchi grins, inching closer to him on the grass. He presses his mouth to Tsukishima’s shoulder. A calm breeze whispers past.

“I don’t know what I would wish for,” he admits. His breath is warm through Tsukishima’s shirt.

“Two million dollars?” Tsukishima guesses.

“Okay. You’re the expensive one here, after all.”

“Is that right?”

“No,” Yamaguchi answers, nuzzling against his shoulder, distracting Tsukishima from the sky of stars. “You’re perfect.”

“That’s laughable.”

Yamaguchi grins. He wraps his hand around Tsukishima’s arm and turns onto his side. Crawling clouds linger on the edge of their view. Tsukishima gives up. He watches Yamaguchi, cast in only moonlight, grass scratching his cheek again.

“I wonder if you can adopt a shooting star,” murmurs Yamaguchi, “or if they’re too difficult to pin down.”

“They aren’t really stars. They’re rocks.”

“Oh.” He yawns into Tsukishima’s shoulder. “I bet they’re a lot cheaper.”

Tsukishima's breathy laugh quivers Yamaguchi’s hair. 

“Yeah. Probably.”

“The word _adopt_ is misleading. It makes you think it’s free.”

“Not really. People pay tons of money to adopt pets.” Tsukishima yawns, too. “And babies.”

“I like how babies were an afterthought for you,” Yamaguchi jokes.

“Too expensive.”

“To adopt? Or just in general?”

“Both,” says Tsukishima. “Either.”

Eyes shut, Yamaguchi brings his hand to Tsukishima’s face. He smoothes his palm over his cheek. His thumb traces the shell of his ear. Tsukishima sighs, content.

“You’re not watching the stars anymore,” he accuses.

Yamaguchi lifts his head. He gazes up at Tsukishima, a wedge of moonlight in his eyes.

“Do we really need a million dollars?"

“Two million,” Tsukishima corrects.

Yamaguchi laughs. He leans up and kisses him once, twice, three times, his palm warm on Tsukishima’s cheek.

“Maybe you’re right,” Yamaguchi admits, grinning softly. “I mean, think of how many stars that would get us.”

“We are not using our fictional money on stars.”

He kisses Tsukishima again.

“Come on, Tsukki,” he whines.

“Fine, Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima mumbles against his warm mouth. “But only half.”

Another soft kiss seals the deal. Overhead, the stars flicker their agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [*](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCveb8EHtkU)


	30. sex kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a warning: these 290 words are rated M.

The sheets are damp under Tadashi’s back, bunched and uneven. Kei’s thighs squeeze around his waist as he whines, his palm flat on Tadashi’s tight abdomen, and the mattress is just noisy enough to cry out each time Kei lifts himself on his knees only to sink down again, deeper, quicker. Tadashi wraps his fingers around Kei’s arm. He coaxes him down.

Heat pulses from Kei, setting fire to them both. Tadashi draws a hand up his back. His skin is hot, slick with sweat. Tadashi’s fingers slide easily, curling into Kei’s damp hair at the nape of his neck. He twitches as Kei presses down on him. Kei stirs his hips and Tadashi gasps. His nails dig into the flesh of Kei’s arm. Kei watches him, watches his face as he lets Tadashi sink fully into him again, their breath exchanging.

Kei’s forehead is damp against his. Their hot breath quickens as they rock.

Tadashi moans his name. He lurches up and kisses Kei, their mouths slick and bodies preoccupied. Kei keeps him close with a hand at the back of Tadashi’s head, holding him up as their tongues brush, panting hotly, desperately into his mouth. Tadashi slides his hands down Kei’s back again. He grabs his hips, directing him down. Kei hisses a sigh before he kisses Tadashi again, tilting his head to lick deeply into his mouth.

They lose their kiss as their pace quickens. Kei pants against his mouth, his lips wet and red. He traces Tadashi’s bottom lip with his thumb. He watches him again, hands and fingers adoring his face, the insides of his thighs soft, warm and quivering around Tadashi’s middle. Tadashi takes Kei’s face in his trembling hands. Their eyes flutter shut.


	31. drunk kiss

The rushed, fuzzy announcement for last call on hard liquor is drowned out by the karaoke music, by the hoots and hollers of tipsy patrons, by the thunderous applause as _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ stretches to its climax on the cheap but plentiful bar speakers. Kei can’t remember how many beers he’s had because the waitress is freakishly good at her job, clearing the frosty mugs from the table before he has a chance to reconsider another round. But it’s not his card on the tab, and Yamaguchi keeps chirping at him to have a nice time. Kei promises he will, he is, and the worst part is this: he isn’t even lying.

It’s _fun_. Their former teammates buzz around them, from the bar to the table to the karaoke stage and back again in enthused, furious loops. They make Kei dizzy. But he steadied himself a while ago with a hand on Yamaguchi’s thigh and it hasn’t left for a moment. His palm is damp on the denim of his jeans. His fingers tap, tap, tap along with the music. Yamaguchi’s face is flushed, his expressions loose and open, his hand curled around his mug of beer. Each time he takes a drink, he’s left with a little foam mustache. Kei keeps wiping them away with his thumb.

“Thanks, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi chirps next time Kei does it, and then swipes the back of his hand over his mouth to make sure it’s all gone. The ornaments that dangle from the bar ceiling over their heads twinkle in the flashing lights. “You know, Daichi said he’d pay for our lift home if we get up there.”

Something festive pumps from the speakers and soon, a crooning voice drowns out any hint of instruments. Kei taps along anyway. Hinata and Nishinoya burst from the crowd in front of the stage and swing by the table to wave before they zip to the bar, sweaty and wired by alcohol. Watching them makes Kei drowsy. He sinks into the booth. He only takes his hand from Yamaguchi’s thigh so he can wrap his arm around his shoulders.

Yamaguchi melts into the touch with a lazy grin. “What should we sing?”

“We’re not doing that,” Kei insists at once, grinning along. “I’m not doing that. I’d rather walk home.”

There are two new beers on the table when they turn back. When Yamaguchi takes his mug away from his mouth, he’s got a fresh mustache. The songs from the speakers turn over easily, flowing like one steady beat, and although Kei has heard them all one hundred times, he can’t pick their words from his clouded brain. But they sound _so good_ , safe and familiar like the dip of Yamaguchi’s cupid’s bow under the pad of his thumb. He wipes the beer foam on Yamaguchi’s jeans.

“Not on my _pants_ ,” Yamaguchi whines, rubbing at the damp spot.

“Why not? It’s your mustache.”

Kei snorts a laugh when Yamaguchi hiccups and laughs some more when Yamaguchi guffaws at himself, his shoulders shaking under Kei’s arm. Yamaguchi really is cute. Kei feels his heart flutter in his chest. The crowd erupts as _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ starts up again, and apparently the singer is very generous with the microphone because the entire bar chimes in, dozens and dozens of slurred voices, high and low and great and awful and everywhere in between. Kei cups the back of Yamaguchi’s head with his hand. He pulls him close.

Yamaguchi tastes like beer, but more importantly, he tastes like Yamaguchi: warm and familiar and inviting. The karaoke blurs to a pleasant hum. Yamaguchi’s hands clutch his face, his tongue sliding playfully along his bottom lip before he licks into Kei’s mouth. Kei eggs him on. He slides his hand to the back of his neck and pushes Yamaguchi closer, kissing him quicker, withdrawing his tongue into his mouth so Yamaguchi has to come find it. They kiss wetly, noisily, so crudely that Kei knows he should be embarrassed but can’t for the life of him manage it. Yamaguchi cups his jaw with warm hands, sticky from sloshed beer, and coaxes from him deep, filthy, sloppy kisses. Kei feels himself melt into the booth. Yamaguchi’s hot hands grip him, reshape him. The roaring music fades back in. Kei needs to breathe.

He turns from the kiss to catch his breath and Yamaguchi does the same, panting but beaming, his lips shining red. He breathes a laugh when Kei does. Kei swings his arm easily around Yamaguchi’s shoulders and takes up his fresh beer, a layer of frothy foam hiding the good stuff. Still beaming, Yamaguchi lifts his, too. Their mugs meet with a hearty _clack_ as the next song fizzles out, the festive crowd erupting with applause.


	32. new years kiss

As the temple bell rings for the fifty-second time, Tsukishima says, “I have a headache.”

Yamaguchi shuffles around on the crowded pavement. He pulls his hat further over his ears and leans his head on Tsukishima’s shoulder. The boom of the bell echoes in the night sky again, slipping between clouds and stars, meteors and airplanes. 

“This whole year was a headache.”

“Gee, thanks,” Tsukishima drones.

Festive food steams on heaping plates, glazed meats atop beds of rice and vegetables, their grill marks dark and fresh. The winter air is thick with frost and spice.

“You didn’t let me finish. This whole year was a headache, but _you_ were my aspirin.”

He gives Yamaguchi a sideways glance. He pats his head lovingly with his mittened hand.

“I didn’t know you were so poetic.”

“I do what I can, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima’s hand falls to rest on his shoulder. The New Years crowd buzzes around them; people in dramatic furs and chunky gloves, small children in fluffy, obnoxious coats, thick hats pulled low over their fixated faces, lit by the dim glow of the streetlights. Tugging Yamaguchi closer in the cold, Tsukishima yawns.

Couples stand like they do. They huddle together, shoulders pressed close and watch the temple and its bell ring into the night, coaxing the next year closer. It crawls cautiously over the hills, wading through lakes and oceans, bending around frosty Tokyo buildings to get to them. The ring of the bell is sweet and deep. With each note, the next year quickens its pace. Yamaguchi holds Tsukishima tighter.

As the temple bell rings for the ninety-seventh time, Yamaguchi says, “I think this year will be better.”

Tsukishima lets out a long, foggy breath. The tip of his nose is pink.

“I think I’m just glad to be here.”

“Even with all these people?” Yamaguchi asks, his grin soft and quiet.

“Mostly with you,” answers Tsukishima.

A chilly breeze stirs the air. The spicy scent of food wafts around the plaza and there are soft sounds of buttons being buttoned, zippers being zipped. Hats are pulled lower over red faces. Yamaguchi shivers. He pulls his scarf from his neck anyway and wraps it around Tsukishima to tug him closer, the tip of Tsukishima’s pink nose nudging his.

“Happy New Year, Kei.”

“Happy New Year, Tadashi.”

As the temple bell chimes for the hundred-and-eighth time, they kiss, soft and delicate, starting anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year guys! i can't believe i pulled this 32-day challenge off. thanks for reading, and thanks to everyone who suggested any prompts. je t'adore. 
> 
> <3


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